


Dying Days

by TozaBoma



Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Americans in London, British Army, Canon Compliant, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-01-25 13:58:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 38,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1651106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TozaBoma/pseuds/TozaBoma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deaths of soldiers are haunting the newspapers - soldiers John knew from his former army company. Sherlock needs to find the serial killer before they can come for John - but the killer isn’t human. They know this kind of case is not their speciality. If only they had a couple of friends who knew about this supernatural stuff. Oh wait; they do. Enter Sam and Dean - and a few days no-one will forget.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One For the Weekend

 

She shuffled into the kitchen, breaking the silence of early morning. The black rubber end to her walking stick made exiguous _thump-thump_ noises as she padded her way up to the stove. She left her walking stick to lean against the drawers and counter top before picking up the kettle. Her hand swished it around, feeling the agreeable weight that meant tea would soon be in order. She set it down again and turned on the electric hob beneath.

“Sheils, love? You’re _still_ gettin’ up too early,” said a voice from the doorway.

She looked over to find a man standing there, his shoulder leaning against the doorjamb, his arms folded, and a smile on his face. “Old habits,” she said, smiling back. “Plus a few painkillers wouldn’t hurt. Sorry if I woke you - _again_.”

“You know I’m just lucky you came back at all,” he said seriously. He rubbed at his eye, yawning.

“Decaf tea?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” He smiled and then disappeared.

Sheila looked back at the countertop and reached for the mug tree. Taking two dark blue cups and placing them on the counter, she heard another noise behind her. “Give me a minute, Mark,” she said. She opened the teabag caddy to her right, fishing out two bags and dropping one in each cup. “What am I saying - you’ll be asleep before I get back up there anyway.”

A voice surprised her: “Private Sheila Winters?” 

She froze but her brain galloped on: _That’s not Mark._

She spun. And gaped.

A woman, resplendent in polished metal, was standing right in front of her. Covered from neck to toe in dull silver armour, a black tabard hung over the top to show off strange, large markings. Her head was protected by a magnificently-wrought silver helmet. A single, short red feather adorned each side, a suggestion of blonde hair poking out from under the ear shield. The brow defended her forehead and the bridge of her nose; her bright blue, piercing eyes held Sheila’s effortlessly. Her expression spoke volumes on professional sternness. “Private Sheila Winters?” she asked again.

Sheila snatched up her walking stick without a second thought. “How did you get in my house? Who are you!” she demanded.

“Do not fear me, Sheila Winters,” the woman said. Her face changed; all at once she was kind, warm, serene. “You are the soldier I seek. I can see it in your heart, in your eyes.”

“Get out of my house! I’ll call the police!” Sheila shouted angrily.

“There is no need for violence. You have seen enough of that.”

“Then get out of my house!”

“Private Sheila Winters. My name is Skalmöld. It is my privilege to collect you.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you!”

“Yes,” Skalmöld said quietly, “you are. I have come for you - again. I was late; you were gone. But here we both are. Please, come with me.”

“I’m warning you,” Sheila growled, lifting the stick to an attack position. “I’ll defend myself.”

Skalmöld lifted her right hand, showing it to be empty. She reached out. Her fingers landed on Sheila’s shoulder.

There was a single blinding flash of light.

 

ooOoo

 

The morning sunshine watched the grudge match through the window at 221B Baker Street. The two combatants at the table beneath were locked in a life and death struggle, all to do with whose eyebrows of anger would beat whose. Finding the match rather boring, the sunshine edged round a cloud to discard all of its outer layers and streak across their playing field, kicking up its heals in glee.

The resulting blinding ray of sun caught John Watson right in the eye. Suffice to say, he was forced to stop staring at his flatmate and go back to his bowl of muesli. He was not happy about this, but he was forced to accept that it was that or pick up the TV remote and brain his fellow _homo sapien_ with it.

Sherlock Holmes, in a blue dressing gown that covered a rather odd assortment of pyjamas, simply glared at John. He flicked his newspaper to straighten the pages before transferring his hardened gaze to the headlines contained on page two.

John’s spoon went into his muesli. “It’s still cheating.”

“Read the rules,” Sherlock said mildly, albeit under his breath. “It’s allowed.”

“It’s not sporting.” John ladled more breakfast into his mouth.

“And that’s why you lost,” Sherlock muttered.

“Why would you even _want_ to cheat at Risk?”

“Sore you lost?”

“Git,” John accused. Sherlock said nothing - which was more infuriating than any answer he could have come out with. John huffed. John studied his bowl before sending his spoon into it again. “And Mrs Hudson wants her carving knife back.”

“She can have it back when I’ve finished with it.”

“Why don’t you just buy her a new one?” John asked. “Then it wouldn’t matter. Better yet - try buying your _own_ equipment, instead of stealing everyone else’s.”

Sherlock didn’t answer. John glared at him. Then he gave up and spooned more muesli into his mouth.

“Coo-ee!” came a familiar lilt. “Morning fellas!”

John twisted in his chair to find Mrs Hudson coming through their open door. She had rollers in her hair and her favourite pink dressing gown on - the one that matched her fluffy slippers.

“Morning,” John said. “Alright?”

“Me? Yes,” she said, but her face appeared troubled. “Just noticed this in the paper - thought you’d want to see it too.”

Sherlock tipped the corner of his newspaper down immediately, to enable him to see over the top. “Is it a murder?” he demanded.

“It’s not for you, dear,” she said dismissively. She went up to John’s side, putting a folded-up newspaper on the table by his unused, right hand. “I’m sorry, John,” she said, as if she had found two of his favourite puppies had just died. “It’s just… well. I thought it might be important to you.”

He put down his spoon, reaching across to pick up the newspaper. “Private Sheila Winters, formerly of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, was found dead yesterday morning in her kitchen in South East London,” he read. He continued to read silently, but Sherlock’s eyes still followed his movements like a bur on a cat’s paw. John frowned. “Found dead,” he breathed.

“Someone had a bad Saturday morning then,” Sherlock commented.

“Hush you,” Mrs Hudson hissed.

“Well?” Sherlock asked. “ _Was_ it murder?”

“Stop, Sherlock,” John all but snapped.

“Oh dear,” Mrs Hudson said wretchedly, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Did you know her?”

“We went out to Afghanistan together,” John said quietly. “Sheila - ‘Sheils’ - was… great. Funny, clever - she was fast, too. I’ve never seen anyone strip a rifle as fast as her.”

“Ngaw,” she said, patting him gently. “Did you two ever… you know, get friendly?”

John looked up at her. “Me? And her? God, no. She had a bloke back home. —I mean here.” He paused to look back at the paper. “Poor Mark. She told me - said he was supportive. Proud of her.” He fell silent, looking back at the picture alongside the article.

“I expect they’ll contact you, eh? For an army funeral?” she prompted.

“Yeah,” he said faintly.

She patted his shoulder. “Well I’ll leave you to it. Sorry to ruin your morning.”

“No, it’s… Thanks. For letting me know,” he said, pre-occupied.

Mrs Hudson patted once more. Then she turned and walked off, disappearing down the stairs.

Sherlock immediately folded his newspaper and tossed it aside. He leant over and snatched the paper from John’s hand.

“Oi!” John said angrily.

“Let me see that.” Sherlock turned it round to read.

“You’ve already got the Sunday Times!”

“But the Mail has the story.”

John snatched the paper back again. He got up abruptly. “Google it.” He turned and stormed out of the door, presumably to his bedroom.

Sherlock watched him go, his face a study in mystification. Then he pushed his chair back and went straight to the sofa across the room. Plonking himself down, he scooped up the laptop on the surface and opened it up, turning it on and waiting completely impatiently for it to start up. He began to hammer at the keys. Then he sat back, bringing it with him to read it. “5th Northumberland Fusiliers… invalided back to England after injuries sustained in Afghanistan… decorated private… liked by her company and those she served…” He snapped the laptop shut and dropped it to the coffee table. “Well this is _pathetic_ ,” he snapped with the utmost vitriol. “No facts. Who writes an obituary without putting any facts in about the death itself? Useless - _useless_ \- online newspapers.” He huffed. He drummed his fingers on the sofa cushions either side of him. His jaw stuck out in abject disappointment.

His phone beeped. He leapt up and stepped onto the coffee table - narrowly missing the laptop - to get across the room and take the phone from the other table. He tutted, typed a long text message, and pressed send. Then he looked up at the ceiling, in the rough direction of John’s room. “ _Joooooohn!_ ” he called, at the top of his lungs. “You will let me know if it’s a murder!”

There was a long pause.

“Why don’t you go do a study on the speed a taxi needs to be going before it’ll flatten a grown man!” was the muffled reply.

Sherlock almost smiled as he crossed to the window and looked out. Then he sagged, the familiar, hated feel of absolute boredom arresting his every fibre. “God, I hate Sundays.”

 

ooOoo

 

John went up the stairs, going into the front room of 221B Baker Street. He carried the two plastic shopping bags round to the kitchenette, finding the room suspiciously clean. He set the bags down on the wooden table and sniffed. He turned around and sniffed again.

“Bleach,” he realised. “Wait - Monday isn’t cleaning day. —Oh God - what’s he been cutting up this time?” He dared to go to the fridge and open it - but it was empty, save three eggs in the door pocket and a carton of orange juice on the top shelf. 

John shrugged and closed the fridge - but then he raced to the oven and opened it up quickly. Finding it devoid of experiments of any kind, he next checked the kettle and then the toaster.

“All clear,” he said, confused. He leant on the kitchen counter, thinking. “So where is it this time? Where would you hide your latest disgusting attempt to make me wish I’d never moved into the same flat as you?”

He heard a faint ringing and paused to listen. Something immediately defined at Sherlock’s voice answered, and then it all went quiet. John poked his head out of the kitchen to wait.

Sherlock flew into the front room, his black trousers and off-grey shirt protesting his endeavour to move faster than light. “John! Where are you!” he called, even as he grabbed up his phone from the table by the window.

“Not very observant for a detective, are you?” John said mildly. He folded his arms, watching. “What could you possibly want me for?”

“Lestrade’s called - suspicious death.”

“How nice for you. I’m going to put the shopping away and then try to follow Mrs Hudson’s recipe for Shepherd’s Pie.”

“Oh forget the pie!” Sherlock cried, spinning on the balls of his feet to look at him. “A suspicious death!”

“I don’t care,” John said clearly. “Go geek out over a dead body. Impress everyone. Have a good time.”

“You want to come with me,” Sherlock said. He pushed his phone into his pocket and reached for the long coat currently languishing over the back of his armchair.

“No, I don’t,” John shrugged.

“It’s another soldier.”

John’s face went white. “I’ll get my coat.”

 


	2. Just Another Manic Monday

 

Sherlock strode into the morgue as if time itself were hanging from a ledge by its weak fingertips, and only getting to the pathology room that instant could save it. He arrived at the double doors but they hardly slowed him down as he barrelled through by sheer palm power. He found Molly in one of her usual lab coats, her hands in her pockets, waiting for him.

“I can’t find anything suspicious,” she said immediately.

“What?” he asked, all at once completely disgusted. “Lestrade said it was a suspicious death!”

“It is,” she said, backing away to the table, fully laden with a corpse covered by a white sheet. “But the death isn’t suspicious.”

“You’re talking nonsense - as usual,” Sherlock snapped.

Molly didn’t say a word. The double doors behind the consulting detective opened a second time, admitting John and Lestrade. They caught Sherlock up - until he turned on Lestrade.

“Is it a suspicious death or _not_?” he demanded.

Lestrade let his hands slip into his trouser pockets and his weight rock back on his heels. “Well like I was trying to say to you before you cut me off - each time,” he replied, as slowly as he could, “his death isn’t actually suspicious. _That’s_ what’s suspicious.”

Sherlock flapped a hand at him in dismissal. He turned back to Molly. “Well?”

But Molly was looking past him to John. “Hi,” she said quietly.

“Afternoon,” he nodded.

Lestrade came forward. “The bloke lived by himself; no family. We got his ID from his wallet that we found in his house. We wouldn’t even know he’d died, except the woman next door noticed his back door open - for three hours. She went to investigate and found him lying on the carpet in the front room.”

Sherlock reached for the white sheet. John grasped his elbow and stopped him. Sherlock hesitated, clearly confused. Lestrade and Molly watched as John stepped up to the gurney. He straightened his back and then, slowly, put a hand out. He lifted the sheet and pulled it down. “Oh,” he groaned, his entire body sagging. “Bloody hell.”

“Did you know him?” Lestrade asked.

“Yeah. Served with him,” John managed, his voice tight, quiet. “Private Michael Lennery. Good bloke.” He dropped the sheet and stepped back quickly. He looked at the floor. “Poor Mike.”

Molly leant over and pulled the sheet up again hastily. “Sorry, John. I didn’t think you’d know him. Lots of servicemen about, right?”

“Yeah - no - yeah. It’s fine,” he said. “Not your fault. You weren’t to know.” He took another step back.

“Why was Private Michael Lennery _here_ ,” Sherlock said loudly, “when he should have been in Afghanistan?”

Lestrade sniffed to himself, eyeing John before he looked back at Sherlock. “He was injured, about six months back. He was invalided back here to recuperate. Don’t they become trainers rather than go back to combat? If they’re invalided, I mean?”

“We can,” John said. “—I mean - _they_ can. Invalided soldiers. Them.”

“But that’s why you came back, isn’t it?” Molly said innocently. “That trouble with your shoulder?”

Sherlock’s eyes darted from the covered corpse to John and back again. His eyebrows leapt at each other to hold his face together as things whizzed through his brain.

“Yes,” John said. He looked from the sheet to her. “Well. He’s definitely dead, and you’ve got his name and a positive ID. I’ll see myself out.” He turned and walked away. The doors swung shut behind him.

Molly bit her lip and looked at Lestrade. “Poor man.”

“He’ll live,” Sherlock grunted. He pulled the sheet back and pulled out a small black sliding piece of plastic. He snapped it out to reveal a magnifying glass with a lens roughly the size of a fifty pence piece. He began to assess tiny details on the dead private. “Official cause of death?”

“Same reason he was invalided back here,” Molly said. “Massive trauma to his left lung, punctured by shrapnel.”

“Why would he die from that _now_ , and not in Afghanistan?” Sherlock asked.

“No idea. He was treated over there, patched up and that. They sent him back here to get better - which he did. But then, out of the blue, that’s exactly what killed him,” Molly said.

Sherlock straightened up, turning to look at Lestrade. “There was another death - two days ago. Private Sheila Winters. What did she die of?”

Lestrade looked at the ceiling in thought. “Uh… Don’t know. Wasn’t my department.”

“I know,” Molly said. “She was brought in here as usual. Official cause of death was bone trauma causing haemorrhaging. She bled to death.”

“In her own home?” Sherlock tutted. “What did she do, break an arm opening a jar of Marmite?”

“It was a broken leg, actually,” Molly said. “That’s all the report said.”

“And yet she was a combat veteran trained in triage,” Sherlock mused. He stood back from the body. His eyes went from side to side in voracious curiosity before he looked back at Lestrade. “You called me here because you thought this was suspicious, correct?”

“Yes,” he shrugged. “I mean, people like him don’t just die from old wounds. Right?”

“Oh it’s suspicious alright. So is Private Sheila Winters’ death. That’s deaths of two soldiers, who’ve been invalided back to the UK, within three days.”

“Oh no,” Lestrade groaned. “Don’t say it’s a serial killer. I _hate_ serial killers.”

Sherlock lifted his hands, rubbing them eagerly. A grin lit up his face. “Have you got Private Lennery’s effects from the crime scene?”

Lestrade sighed. “Yeah. Come with me to the station and you can have a poke around. If this _is_ a serial killer, then I want him caught as soon as possible.”

“As do I,” Sherlock grinned. “Show me his personal effects, and those of Private Sheila Winters. This is going to be _fun_.” He winked at Molly and turned on his heel. 

Lestrade and Molly watched him walk out.

“It’s almost criminal,” Lestrade grumbled.

She sighed. “Gets cases solved though.”

 

ooOoo

 

Sherlock burst into the front room of 221B Baker Street to find John sitting in his favourite armchair, his Union Jack cushion tucked behind his back and his laptop on his knees.

“Guess what I’ve got!” Sherlock crowed, crossing the room to wave a sealed plastic evidence bag in front of his face.

“Flu?” John asked wearily. “Anti-Social Personality Disorder?”

“No. Maybe. —The disorder, not flu,” he rattled off. “Look what’s in the bag!”

John took it from him, scrutinising the contents. “It looks like a dirty white feather.”

“It _is_ a feather!” Sherlock gushed. He whipped another, identical plastic bag out of his other coat pocket. “And now _this_ one!”

John took and studied that one, too. He looked from one bag to the other. “It looks the same.”

“Yes! One was found near Private Sheila Winters when the ambulance arrived for her. The other was found right beside Private Michael Lennery!”

“Wow - that’s great,” John said with notable sarcasm. “Have you told Lestrade to arrest Big Bird yet?”

Sherlock whisked the bags off him and threw them to his armchair, before yanking off his heavy coat. “Not until I’ve confirmed they belong to this ‘Big Bird’. Is he a known thug within London? An assassin, perhaps? Are feathers his calling card?”

John bit back a smile. “Yes, actually. He lives on Sesame Street. He’s very popular because he works ‘cheep’.”

“Ah,” Sherlock nodded. “Yes. Data. Good. Which post code is Sesame Street in? I haven’t heard of it, and I know every street in London.”

John grinned before he ran a hand down his face. “I’m _kidding_ , Sherlock. He’s a TV character, a costume worn by a puppeteer.”

“Oh,” he said, stopping short. “Puppeteers don’t wear costumes,” he said dismissively, throwing his coat to the far sofa and himself into his armchair. He pulled the bags out from underneath him and began to study them in turn.

John shook his head, getting to his feet. “I’m making tea. Want one?”

“Bit of milk, cheers.”

John went off to the kitchenette. Sherlock unsealed the first bag and dipped his hand in, pulling the feather out carefully. He stretched over and picked up a large magnifying glass from the table under the window. Bringing it to bear, he frowned at the feather, unblinking, until John came back into the room with two mugs of tea. He left one within Sherlock’s reach, on the table, before taking his back to his armchair.

“Well?” he asked. “Was it an ibis? A falcon?”

“Why did you pick those two?” Sherlock said, pre-occupied.

“I’ve seen them in Afghanistan.”

“And why Afghanistan?”

“Because both of them were there,” John said. “Sheila, Mike, everyone. The whole company went out in waves.”

Sherlock’s eyes swivelled up to appraise the opposite wall in thought. “How many of your company died in Afghanistan, John?”

“One. Why?”

“And how many were sent back to the UK to recover from injuries?”

John’s pleasant expression began to fade. “Not many. Why are you asking?”

“Consider the facts: two soldiers from your former company have died. Both of them were invalided back here to recuperate from injuries. They died within three days of each other, apparently from their wounds - which is improbable in the extreme, considering their skills. Why these two? What’s their connection, other than coming from the same company and both being _here_ and not in Afghanistan? —That’s a very small section of the population for a serial killer to go after. How many more are there?”

John swallowed. “You mean how many more are there apart from _me_ , right? That’s what you mean?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John. You’re not in any danger,” Sherlock scoffed.

“Even though, on paper, I’m exactly the same as those two deceased soldiers?” he said harshly.

“Yes.”

“So why do you think I’m different? How do you know this madman isn’t going to come for me next?”

Sherlock’s mouth opened. It closed again. His eyes went back to the feather.

John nodded, his entire demeanour rather accusing. “That’s what I thought.” He got up and walked off, taking his tea with him.

Sherlock waited until he’d left the room. Then he put down the magnifying glass and pushed his hand down the side of his armchair cushion. He brought it out to reveal a Sig Sauer P226R handgun, regrettably unreturned to the British Army by one Captain John Watson. Sherlock pressed at the magazine button, slid it free to check it was fully loaded, and then pushed it back home. He made sure the safety was on.

And then he slid it back down the side of his chair.

 

ooOoo

 

John trundled into the front room, his phone in his hand. He found the lamps on around Sherlock’s chair but the furniture unoccupied. “Sherlock!” 

There was a noise in the kitchen and then Sherlock poked his head round the doorjamb. “What now?”

“Apparently, ‘the genetic make-up is nothing I’ve seen before’,” John said, annoyed. “That’s from some phone number I don’t know. I’m assuming it’s a text message for you.” He held his phone out.

Sherlock came out of the kitchen and took it from him to read the screen himself. “Hmm. Well that was the final avenue. We’re out of options.”

“What options?” John asked. He looked around, finding books of every kind scattered about - every one of them open at pages of birds.

Sherlock went back into the kitchen, prompting John to follow him. He spotted the wooden table, and pieces of feather in various states of boiling, marinating and burning, all in their own individual kidney dishes upon its surface.

He took his phone back from Sherlock quickly. “What the hell’s going on?”

“I’m trying to identify the owner of the feathers - that were present at each crime scene,” Sherlock said irritably. “So far, nothing. The tests I’ve done have suggested that it’s not even from a bird.”

“Not a bird?” John echoed. “Then… what else has feathers?”

“Precisely.” He turned and pinned John with a look that could have made a hole in a diamond in its unabashed enthusiasm. “I have reason to believe it’s not even of this Earth.”

“Sherlock,” John sighed, wiping his hands down his face, “what are you talking about? Of _course_ it’s ‘of this Earth’. Where else could it be from? What is it, an alien?”

Sherlock smiled. “You used to tell me that wasn’t possible,” he said. “It does leave us with an impossible question. We need information. Where could this have come from, if not a bird of our planet?”

John threw his hands up in the air. “Maybe it’s just a new kind of bird! You know, they do find new species all the time up the Amazon.”

“No, John. It’s not structurally comparable to any bird that any one of a dozen experts has seen. I know - I’ve tried all of them.”

John put his hands on his hips, walking to the window and looking out at the Monday evening. “Ok: how do we find out which bird it is?”

“I think we’re asking the wrong questions - of the wrong experts,” Sherlock said.

“Then who?”

“Who do we know, who knows about things peripheral to our world? Who could study this feather and eliminate a few dozen sources for us without even trying? Who do we know who has knowledge of the one science I don’t?”

John waited. 

As did Sherlock.

John shrugged. Then he waved his hands out. “I have no idea, Sherlock,” he said, exasperated. “Is there even a science you _don’t_ know anything about?”

“Oh yes,” he said.

“And that is?”

“The supernatural.”

John rolled his eyes. “But we don’t know any experts on the supernatural.”

Sherlock raised one eyebrow. “You have a short memory.” He folded himself into his chair. “Find my phone - and skip to the contacts under ‘W’.”

 


	3. Ruby Tuesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As this takes place after Sherlock 2x02 The Hounds of Baskerville but before 2x03 The Reichenbach Fall, and after SPN 7x11 Adventures in Babysitting but before 7x12 Time After Time, there will be some season 7 spoilers here. Just sayin’.

 

 

The two men carried a duffle bag over a shoulder each, wandering round the left-hand hairpin bend beyond all the empty UK Customs tables. They found a large set of double doors waiting for them, long since pinned wide open. Beyond it was an exit path, lined with barriers and people looking out from behind them, apparently waiting for sight of someone they knew.

The shorter man was in front, watching exits and people with wary attention. “Can’t believe we just jumped on the first flight here,” he grumbled. “Not like we were _busy_ or anythin’.”

The taller man, just behind him, gave a small huff. “We needed the break.”

“Why do we have to come all the way to London, again? Why couldn’t they come to us?”

“Dude, you know why. And if Sherlock hadn’t sent us that powder a few months back, we wouldn’t have taken down that ghoul.”

“I still don’t know how he got it all the way to the US in a diplomatic pouch.”

The taller man smiled. “Lucky we found you a colonel’s uniform that fit, or you never woulda got it from the top brass at the postal service.”

“I _did_ get to be a colonel for a day. Wish eight-year-old me could’ve seen that.”

“You wanted to be a colonel? I thought you wanted to be a firefighter.”

“ ‘Least I wasn’t running around scared of Ronald McDonald,” the shorter man grunted. He walked out of the doors, looking around. “I only been to Heathrow once before, man, and I don’t remember how to find the exit,” he said over his shoulder.

The taller man, his long brown hair in need of some brush love after nearly nine hours on a flight, simply stopped and pointed. “I don’t think we’ll need to.”

The other man stopped too, his gaze following the finger. A man, wearing a flat black hat and a smart jacket, was standing close to the barrier to their right. In his hands was a large white card that read ‘Sam & Dean Winchester’.

“Did someone order us a limo?” the shorter man marvelled.

The taller man walked around him and waved to the card-carrier, successfully getting his attention. He pointed further along and they took off, ready to meet up. When they did, the man with the sign let it drop, grinning from ear to ear.

“So you’d be Sam, then?” he asked.

The taller man nodded. “Yeah. Uhm, who sent you?”

“Mr Holmes, guv. Said I had to look for the giraffe and the sledgehammer.” He paused as Sam smiled despite himself. “These your only bags, sir?”

“Yeah,” Sam managed, pushing his duffle slightly higher up his shoulder. He heard someone stop behind him to his left. “This is my brother, Dean.”

“Thought as much. Well then, let’s get goin’, shall we?” he grinned. He tipped his hat at both brothers before turning and walking off.

The Winchesters looked at each other. “Welcome to London,” Sam shrugged with bemusement.

“And the city where all the people kinda sound like Crowley,” Dean warned. Sam frowned. Dean shook his head dismissively and they followed the purposeful gentleman toward the short stay car park signs.

 

ooOoo

 

Mrs Hudson found the door to the front room of 221B Baker Street wide open, as usual. She knocked on it and then poked her head in. “Yoo-hoo! Sherlock! You’ve got guests.”

“Ah! At last!” Sherlock cried, coming out of the kitchenette.

Mrs Hudson stepped in further, chucking a thumb over her shoulder. “It’s those two again,” she whispered hoarsely. “The ones with that awful business with the knife, and the sticky stuff.”

Sherlock put a hand on her shoulder. “Yes, Mrs Hudson, I know. I asked them to come,” he said shortly. “Be a dear - make up that room in 221C for them again, would you?”

She rolled her eyes but she did turn away, back to the door. The two Winchesters had already made it to the threshold. “I’ll leave you boys to it,” she said with a smile. “Now don’t take any of his bolshiness. Just because he asked you to come doesn’t mean he’s the boss.”

Sam grinned. “Yes ma’am.”

“I’ll get the coffee on - the good stuff,” she winked. 

Dean had time to smile before he moved to one side to let her pass. She whisked off down the stairs. Dean went into the room proper, setting his duffle down by the coffee table in front of the sofa. He clapped his hands together, rubbing. “So, Sherlock. How’s tricks?” he asked, with an effort to be cheerful.

Sam’s eyes slid to him, then went over to Sherlock. “Hey,” he said. “Here we are. You said it was urgent.”

The consulting detective crossed the room. His eyes went up and down Dean in voracious scrutiny, then Sam. He looked back at Dean. “Well. At least you’ll have an easy holiday of it here. Just how bad is it?” he asked curtly.

“We’re good, thanks,” Dean said with a smile. “What’s the case?”

Sherlock’s frown threatened to destroy Dean’s little bubble of lack of damns to give. Dean proved more resilient than the detective’s glower, however, and Sherlock was forced to give up and look at Sam instead. 

Sam shrugged, putting his hands out. “I don’t see a crisis centre in here,” he said innocently. “We dropped everything - got on the first flight, like you said. So what did you need us for?”

Sherlock sniffed before going to his chair. He lifted a plastic bag, containing a single piece of what had been a much larger feather. “This. I need it identified.”

“You brought us all the way here for this?” Dean grunted, going straight to it and taking it from him.

“You remember those _untraceable_ passports I gave you? How are they working out?” Sherlock asked pointedly.

Dean paused his study to look at him. “Actually, we really need them right about now. So… thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Sherlock said. “Two people have died, apparently from wounds they sustained quite a while ago. However, the wounds have spontaneously become fresh and killed them, even though they would have had the knowledge and training to save themselves. One of those,” he said, nodding to the bag, “was found at each crime scene. It’s the only evidence we have of what did this.”

“Something’s killing people, and leaving these feathers behind?” Dean asked.

“I think I just said that,” Sherlock tutted.

“And there was absolutely nothing else left at the scene? No DNA, no traces of clothes, hair, powders, nothing?” Sam asked.

“As I said, no,” Sherlock replied. He looked at Dean. “Any idea what that feather is from?”

Sam approached and Dean held it up for him to see. They peered at it.

“A roc?” Sam guessed.

Dean frowned. “No-one’s seen a real one since 1789. Think they’re extinct.”

“Uhm… an amrzs.”

“No fruit remains.”

“A peng?”

“No fish scales found nearby,” Dean said, shaking his head.

“A shahrokh?”

“Last time I checked, these people didn’t die in Iran.”

Sam huffed, his head tilting as great wheels went round in his head. “Blue Crow?”

“Or Brazil.”

Sherlock folded his arms, watching with complete absorption.

Dean snapped his fingers. “An animikii?”

“A Thunderbird? Wrong continent - and no thunder on the night, I’m guessing,” Sam added to Sherlock. The detective shook his head. Sam looked back at the bag, and the feather that was watching them with smug fascination. “A hoikoi?”

“The people didn’t die at sea,” Dean said. He handed the bag to Sam. “Maybe we’re looking at this wrong. Maybe it’s not a bird.”

“Then what? An ange—.” Sam halted quickly, clearing his throat.

Dean wiped at his nose with the back of his fingers, his gaze on his boots. “Could be. What else do we know that has feathers but isn’t a bird?”

“But we’ve never seen their wings,” Sam pointed out.

“We have. Kinda,” Dean said with distinct discomfort.

“Too bad we can’t just ask Cas.”

Dean turned away from him, ostensibly to wander an aimless circle. “So… it’s killing people, and it’s not a bird. Angels don’t kill people. Mostly.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s _not_ an angel,” Sam argued. “What if this one’s gone rogue? What if the two soldiers were possessed by demons? We need more information.” He looked at Sherlock pointedly.

The detective grinned the grin of many an approaching shark. “Have a seat, gentlemen.”

They heard a creak on the stairs and turned to see John stepping through the door, carrying a tray laden with two mugs, a sugar bowl, and a small milk jug. He caught sight of the two newcomers. “Long time no see.” He put the tray on the coffee table quickly, straightening up and sticking his hand out. “How are you then? Alright?”

Sam shook his hand first, clapping him on the shoulder with his free hand. “Yeah, we’re good. You?”

“Shouldn’t complain,” John said with a genuine smile, as he shook Dean’s hand. “Any repercussions from your last visit here?”

“None at all,” Dean smiled. “And hey, coffee. You’re a lifesaver.”

John waved a hand at the mugs, stepping to one side, and the two Winchesters helped themselves to tall, steaming cups of black gold. John noticed Sherlock’s frown. “What now?” he asked.

“You interrupted a process of elimination,” Sherlock tutted, going to his armchair and flumping down into it with annoyance.

John’s jaw stuck out in retaliation. “Thanks for helping Mrs Hudson with the room, _John_. Thanks for organising coffee for our guests who’ve just flown four thousand miles just to help us out, _John_ ,” he said, taking himself into the kitchen.

Sam and Dean just watched before they sat on the sofa. Dean had already half emptied his mug before he placed his full attention on the detective. “So. You going to give us all the facts here or what?”

“Love to,” Sherlock said, as he steepled his fingers. “Two deaths, both army personnel. Both were invalided back to England from injuries sustained in Afghanistan. Non-fatal, treated at the scene. However, after spending anywhere from two to six months back in England, the injuries suddenly re-applied themselves - spontaneously and completely, as if they had been struck right there and then. Both people died. The _only_ evidence at each scene was a feather.”

Sam looked at the bag in his hand. “And you checked all the local birds and it didn’t match,” he said.

“I checked _every_ bird. On every continent. A few people I know double-checked; it doesn’t even contain DNA.”

“How can it not contain DNA?” Sam asked in surprise, scrunching up his nose.

“My thoughts exactly,” Sherlock mused. “I concluded it wasn’t of this world. I contacted you two.”

“And we haven’t seen one before either,” Sam said, as if to himself. “So all we have to go on is this feather, not from a known kind of bird or animal, and no-one can work out what it is because it doesn’t have DNA.”

“Do other supernatural creatures?” Sherlock asked suddenly.

“Most of them are organic material, so yeah, I guess so,” Sam muttered, still staring at the feather.

“And ghosts?”

“They leave trails sometimes, ectoplasm, that kind of thing. I suppose you could maybe find something in that.”

“Fascinating,” Sherlock whispered. “What about our old friend shapeshifters?”

“Traces of non-human stuff have been found in the sloughed off skin cells, I think. Hunters don’t really go in for the autopsy of the actual creature itself. It’s normally a burn-the-body-as-soon-as-you-can situation.”

“Has anyone done a study?” Sherlock asked immediately.

Sam blinked. “On shapeshifter DNA?“

“On _all_ supernatural creatures’ DNA. It could be helpful in determining length of haunting time, or migration patterns in entities supposed to stay in one place,” Sherlock said.

“It’s Thursday today, right?” Dean asked wearily.

“Why?” Sherlock asked.

“The weird stuff always happens on Thursdays.” Dean shook his head, as if trying to clear it.

Sherlock’s eyebrows raised. “It’s Tuesday.”

“So… now the weird crap happens on Tuesdays,” Dean sighed.

“I hate Tuesdays,” Sam muttered. He cleared his throat. “What about… Could we try some kind of summoning ritual?”

Dean took another swig of coffee. “With what? All we got is what’s left of a carved-up feather. Do you even know where to start looking into _which_ summoning ritual to use?”

“You know, I bet Bobby has a huge book about—.” Sam stopped short. “I mean, uhm…”

“There’s probably one back at his place,” Dean said.

“Then call him,” Sherlock said. “If he can identify it—“

“He’s gone,” Dean interrupted curtly. “And no-one would be able to find it in his place. He had one whacked-out filing system.”

Sherlock eyed the pair of them, then got up out of his chair. He went into the kitchen.

Sam cleared his throat. “You know… maybe someone should go through Bobby’s stuff. Find the useful things. Make sure they’re not lost.”

“Yeah? Maybe someone should be back in the US chasing the Leviathan that killed him instead of running around London looking for a friggin’ owner of a _feather_ ,” Dean snapped.

“We needed the break, Dean.”

“We?” Dean pressed, looking at his brother. “Or you?”

Sam’s eyebrows sloped down as if the bridge of his nose were the peak of Mount Everest itself. “Look, Dean—“

Sherlock came back out of the kitchen, talking over his shoulder. “Ask someone, John. We need more data.”

Sam and Dean looked up, but Sherlock was already on his way to the window, looking out at the street. 

John emerged from the kitchen, his mobile phone to his ear. “Yeah, yeah. I heard. Is Chris still about? He is? You don’t have a number for him, do you?” he said cheerfully. “Oh yeah… I guess they’d keep it on file.” He listened to something on the other end of the line. “Right. No, I’m just… Well it’s a friend of mine. Sherlock Holmes. Yes, _that_ Sherlock Holmes. He’s kind of interested in this whole thing.” He glanced at Sherlock to find him staring back with barely contained curiosity. “Well, stay safe, eh? I suppose I’ll have to drop in tomorrow. Might even dust off the old badge.” He smiled. “Yeah. Look after yourself.” He cut the line and looked up at the ceiling for a moment.

“Well?” Sherlock demanded. “What did she say?”

“As far as we’re both aware, there are at least two more invalided soldiers from our regiment in the UK right now - probably more. Corporal Christopher Bannister is rumoured to be living in Bath,” John said, sliding the phone into his pocket.

“And the other one?” Sam asked quickly.

John turned to him with a pleasant smile. “Captain John Watson. Alive and well, thanks.”

Dean shot to his feet with palpable annoyance. “Woah woah woah! This whole thing is about stopping an unknown serial killer from re-wounding people on some kind of sick-and-injured list - and John’s on the list?” He pinned Sherlock with a look that would have put the fear of Winchester into any demon. “You brought us here for _this?_ ”

Sherlock eyed him. He raised his chin with the utmost authority. “Yes.”

There was an awkward silence.

Until Dean clapped his hands together and rubbed. “Well let’s get started then. We got a feather and at least two living soldiers. Someone has to sit on the other guy, make sure he’s safe. We’ll keep an eye on John here. In the morning we find some kind of actual list of names we can check off, and go find them too.”

Sam got up. “How do we find this Christopher Bannister guy?”

John put his hands out. “Wait. We need to go through official channels for an entire list of the serving men and women of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers - and to get his contact details. You can’t just get it from the internet.”

“So what are these official channels?” Dean pressed.

“Hollyhedge House. It’s one of the bases used for the Fusiliers, as well as a few other regiments,” John said. He looked at his watch. “It’s eight in the evening. They won’t be open to personnel until tomorrow now.”

“Typical!” Sherlock blurted in disgust. “God forbid the British Army should help me find out who murdered two of their soldiers!”

John looked at the brothers. “Sherlock and I can go to Hollyhedge House and ask for a list of all the soldiers brought back to the UK with injuries. They’ll let us in—“

“Wait,” Sam interrupted. “We’re coming with you. Whatever this thing is, if it tries to jump you, we might recognise it - and know how to take it down right there.”

“Agreed,” Sherlock put in.

John folded his arms, appraising Sam. “And just how are you two going to get in with us?”

Sam and Dean looked at each other. “USAF?” Dean offered. “Intelligence?”

Sam’s eyes went to the ceiling as he thought about something. “I need a net connection and a place to work.”

Sam and Dean looked back at Sherlock. 

Without looking, his left hand shot out and swept up his laptop currently sitting on the table under the windows. “Here. Ask for anything you need. We go tomorrow morning, gentlemen.” He carried it over to Sam, who accepted it with a smile.

“In the meantime, you might want to sleep,” John said.

Dean rubbed a hand over his forehead. “We find the owner of that feather first.”

John folded his arms. “You two have just got off a plane. Have you even eaten anything?”

“Well I won’t lie; I’d feel better after a cheeseburger.”

“We have a hundred take-out places near here,” John smiled. “Unless you want a pasty from downstairs again?”

“The last one _was_ good,” Dean said. “Almost worth the flight.” He looked down at Sam. “You want anything?”

Sam was already opening up the computer and pressing the power button. “I’m good.”

Dean looked back at John. “Lead the way.”

John went to the stairs, closely followed by the eldest Winchester. Sherlock fell into his chair and folded himself in, watching Sam as he began opening webpages and squinting at the contents.

 


	4. Weirdie McWednesdayton

 

Breakfast at 221B Baker Street was a hasty affair, concerning mountains of bacon butties - items that all at once intrigued and delighted Dean - lashings of coffee, and an impatient Sherlock. It was nearly nine in the morning before the other three men were ready to take on a British Army contact desk.

“How long will it take to get there?” Sam asked. He placed John’s laptop back on the table in the front room.

“Two hours in traffic,” Sherlock said over his shoulder, already scooping up his long coat. “Are we _finally_ ready?” A distant honking came from the street, and Sherlock sprang over to look out of the window. “That’s our cab. Come _on_ , people.”

John picked up his coat and the four of them went for the door. Sherlock’s phone began to ring. He ignored it as he pounded down the stairs. The four of them grouped outside the front door, John unsurprised to see a dark purple Vauxhall saloon parked at the kerb. He waved to the driver before opening the rear passenger door for the Winchesters to climb in first.

“Hollyhedge House, is it? Tidmouth?” the driver asked.

Dean, already comfortable against the off-side window, agreed, and everyone else piled into the car. Sam took the front passenger seat, deciding to spare the driver his head blotting out the entire rear window. John closed the door and got comfortable. 

The driver checked his mirrors and pulled away from the kerb. “Now then, here we go,” he muttered, leaning slightly forward to keep a wary eye on his side mirror. His fluffy brown hair and cheerful demeanour immediately put most of the passengers at ease, but Sherlock went about cataloging the man’s early forties’ slim build and lack of glasses or hair products. “Bit of a way, gents. Lucky we had a car ready for you lot this morning,” the driver said with a smile like a ray of sunshine.

“We’re lucky it’s not a normal cab,” John smiled.

“Yeah. Good for ‘round town, not so good for motorway miles,” the driver said. “Sightseeing, are you?”

“Visiting soldiers,” John said.

“Here - did you hear about them two that died off duty? That’s no way for a soldier to go, if you ask me,” he said, suddenly perturbed. “I hope they finds who did it - give him a good going-over. It’s just not right.”

“We will,” Sherlock said quietly.

“Ah - I know you! It’s Mr Holmes, ain’t it?” the driver grinned into his rear view mirror. “Are you on the case then? You going to find who killed ‘em?”

“If we _ever_ get to Tidmouth,” Sherlock said scathingly.

“Well, there we go. Now I can tell people I had Sherlock bleedin’ Holmes in the back of my cab,” the driver chuckled. “They won’t believe me.”

“He’s been in half the cabs in London,” John said under his breath.

“Hate to break this up, but how long is it to Tidmouth?” Dean asked.

“Oh, a Yank, eh?” the driver grinned.

“We’re not from the north,” Dean said, off-hand.

The driver barely paused. “Aim to be in Tidmouth before eleven, sir. No worries. Where are you in from, then? New York?”

“Kansas,” Sam supplied with a wide smile. 

“Hey - listen to this,” the man said, as he pushed an indicator stalk and then turned down a road on their left. “This here Vauxhall Omega? It’s a _Chevrolet_ Omega in the States. How about that, eh?”

“A Chevy?” Dean asked, his ears pricking up.

“Yes sir,” the driver chuckled.

“Did you find anything on that _feather_ , Sam?” Sherlock asked, ice clinging to his tone.

Sam twisted in the seat a way, trying to see over his shoulder. “Nothing so far. I’ve ruled out most of the things we’ve seen before, so… the possibilities are thinning out.”

The blare of a shrill ringing caught everyone’s attention. Sherlock pulled his phone out of his inner coat pocket and hissed something unkind. He unlocked it with his thumb and put it to his ear. “Yes.” He paused. “Another one? Where? Who?”

Sam, Dean and John waited, on high alert, as Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut.

“And did they find a feather? Where? Anything else?” he demanded. He grunted something under his breath. “Idiots. Cause of death? Hmm. What? —We’re working on it. I’ll get back to you.” He locked the phone but squeezed it in his palm, staring straight ahead.

The entire car waited.

“Well?” John asked, at the limit of his patience.

“Another death - two hours ago. Corporal Christopher Bannister,” Sherlock ground out. “Same as the others. This time there were two feathers. Lestrade actually did his job and had any soldier deaths reported to him at Scotland Yard.”

“Bloody hell,” John breathed. “What was the cause of death?”

“Spontaneous broken arm that caused a haemorrhage so bad he bled out on the spot,” Sherlock said. “Miraculously so, considering he was sitting on a bench not ten streets away from Baker Street.” 

“Great,” Dean said. “How many more soldiers are there before John?”

“We’ll find out sometime before eleven this morning,” Sherlock said quietly.

The car drove on.

 

ooOoo

 

The car stopped on the tarmac lane in front of the large house. Red brick a long time ago, it was still rather stately-looking in its scrubbed-clean attempt to stay smart. A large tree shaded the front porch containing the official entrance, and several small bushes obscured it from the lane.

The four men piled out of the hired car. Sam stretched and thanked the driver, even as John discussed waiting times for return journeys whilst handing over a few bank notes that seemed to be worth quite a bit of money. Sam stepped away from the vehicle and turned to study the house.

Sherlock closed on him. “Here,” he announced. Sam turned around to find Sherlock holding his palm out, containing two small shiny gold items. “UK SIM cards, one for each of you. In case we get split up.”

“Whoa - thanks,” Sam said, taking them from him and pushing his free hand into his jeans pocket. He pulled out his phone, powering it off ready to take apart, as Dean came round the car. Sam flipped a SIM card at him and he only just caught it. 

“What’s this?” he asked.

“Put it in your phone,” Sam said.

Dean shrugged and dug into his pocket. 

John appeared behind Sherlock. “Well, gents? Shall we?”

“Ready when you are,” Sam nodded, and then followed as Sherlock and John walked toward the bushes hiding the actual front door.

It was standing open, allowing a cold breeze to fly through and permeate the entire two storey house, but a single woman was standing to attention right inside. Her green fatigues and black beret were crisp, clean, and gave the impression that neither they nor she had moved in a while.

John stepped up first, his eyes going over the pins on her hat. “Private,” he nodded. “Former Captain John Watson, formerly of the 5th Northumberland, 1st Battalion, C Company, to see the Lieutenant Colonel.”

The woman saluted immediately. “Sir. The ranking officer present is Major Morrison, sir.”

“Thank you,” John said easily. “I have three people with me - Sherlock Holmes and two gentlemen from the US Air Force.”

“Understood, sir,” the woman said promptly. “Please follow me.”

She turned and stomped off, her hands behind her back. Sherlock and John took off after her. Sam made a move to follow, but then stopped short and turned back. Dean was rooted to the spot, leaning his weight backwards and letting his head tilt so his eyes could watch her go. 

Sam slapped the back of his hand into Dean’s arm. “Dude,” he hissed.

“What?” Dean said defensively, springing back upright and hurrying to catch them up. “Army chicks, man. They can go a few rounds in any weather. —And the _stamina_. What’s not to like?”

The four of them were marched to a long corridor, painted the same off-white as the rest of the house, it seemed. The private bashed on the door, underneath a brass plaque that read ‘C Company CO: Maj. H. Morrison’.

“Come!” was the response from inside. 

The private nodded to John before opening the door for herself, walking in first. The men filed in behind her as she stopped in front of the wooden desk at the end of the room. “Sir,” she announced. “Captain John Watson to see you.”

The officer behind the desk sat up, as if mired in deep thought and deeper paperwork. Dark brown hair twisted carefully into a French plait under her black beret, she straightened up in her green fatigues to find four men watching her. She got to her feet. “I am Major Morrison, Mr Watson. How can I help you?” she asked. John saluted out of instinct, making Morrison smile. “You were discharged, sir. There’s no need for that.”

“Old habits,” John allowed, somewhat red faced, before making his arm drop. “How did you know I was discharged?”

“We all know the name John Watson around here,” she smiled. “You were one of us. And now you’re solving crimes with the most famous man in London.” She looked at Sherlock. “I hope that’s you, sir. I was toying with the idea of calling you myself.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said slowly. “At your service.”

Morrison looked at the private, still waiting patiently. “Dismissed,” she said. The woman nodded and left the room, closing the door quietly. Morrison waved a hand out at the wooden chairs to one side of the room. “Please, help yourselves, gentlemen. May I ask who your other two companions are?” She sat as the others found chairs and brought them over, arranging them in front of her desk - but not too close. 

John put a hand out. “Sherlock Holmes you already know. This is—“

Sam lifted his palm and John stopped abruptly. “Captain Kerry Livgren, USAF,” Sam said.

“Captain Steve Walsh, USAF. We’ve come over from RAF Molesworth to assist Mr Holmes with his investigation,” Dean added.

Major Morrison looked at him for a long moment, then glanced at Sam. “Why would two USAF men be here on a case involving a British regiment?”

“Are you familiar with RAF Molesworth?” Sam asked. “We work at the joint analysis centre, monitoring trouble spots. We consider servicemen and women in danger to be worth our investigative time and effort.”

“As do I,” she said slowly. “However…” She stood up. “I’m afraid I cannot divulge information on personnel to anyone outside the regiment. Especially the USAF.”

“Are you refusing to work with us?” Sam asked, surprised.

“I am following protocol and keeping the problems of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, 1st Battalion, C Company, to its commanding officers,” she said.

Dean sniffed, resting back in the chair. “I thought you’d want this solved.”

“I do, Mr Walsh,” she said curtly. “However, I prefer _not_ to parade our problems in front of allies when we are quite capable of looking into them ourselves. Furthermore, if you’ve come from RAF Molesworth then you know that you have no jurisdiction when you’re off the shared RAF \ USAF bases to which you’re attached.”

“We’re on a long leash,” Dean said patiently. “A _very_ long leash.”

“That’s as may be, but your presence here is unnecessary.”

“We’re here to help,” Sam said, not without a small huff.

Morrison turned her head to pin him with a glare. “I understand that, Mr Livgren.”

“Then let us _help_ ,” Dean said.

“You are not cleared to engage in joint endeavours, Captain,” she said.

Dean’s face hardened. “Never had this trouble with Pete Wisdom,” he said sarcastically.

Morrison studied him for a long moment. Which meant she didn’t see Sam’s face of Absolute Blame and Ass-Kickery that he was currently unleashing on his brother’s profile.

Dean didn’t even notice. He simply looked back at the Major as if waiting for a weather report.

Morrison went around her desk and walked out of the room. The moment she closed the door behind them, Sam thumped a hand into Dean’s arm.

“Ow!” he protested.

“Nice work, Dean!” Sam hissed. “Now she’s going to go check back through her Marvel comic collection for the last time Pete Wisdom appeared in print!”

“Hey - those are classics of the 90s,” Dean snapped back. “And in case you hadn’t noticed, she ain’t thrown us out just yet!”

John slapped a palm into his face, shaking his head. Sherlock simply sniffed, taking out his phone and thumbing at virtual keys as he mouthed ‘Wisdom’ to himself. He paused, read, and then smirked and put the phone back in his pocket.

Eventually the door opened again, and Major Morrison came back to her desk. She stood behind it, looking at the four men in turn.

“You have my apologies, Mr Livgren, Mr Walsh. I was unaware you had access to top level passwords.” She cleared her throat and sat down again.

Sam’s head turned in slow motion. His wide eyes latched on Dean. It was possible Dean had never looked more smug in his entire life. He shrugged in a deprecating manner and then looked back at Major Morrison.

“Now that we’re all on the same side, and cleared to be so - where do we start?” Morrison asked. She looked straight at Sherlock. “Mr Holmes?”

He leant forward slightly. “We need a list of all serving soldiers in your company, Major. Along with a comparable list of those invalided to England since… Afghanistan.”

“All years?” she asked, already reaching for a pen and paper. She began to scribble quickly.

“All years,” he confirmed. “I need a look at the uniforms in use.”

“Active or dress uniforms?” she asked.

“Both. Also, all records pertaining to all personnel invalided.”

Morrison nodded as she noted it down. “Including the exact medical reasons for them being returned to the UK?”

“Yes,” he said, a smile playing over his lips. “I also need the circumstances of their injuries.”

“You’ll have them within the hour,” she said, setting down her pen. “I’m afraid I cannot let you leave the premises with the originals, but you can make your own notes based on what you see.”

“Perfect, Major Morrison. You are exemplary,” Sherlock said, getting to his feet. John gaped up at him in surprise, then looked back at the Major. Sherlock patted John’s shoulder suddenly. “John can start on the notes, as can Mr Livgren and Mr Walsh. Show me the uniforms.”

“I’ll have someone take you round,” she said. She pushed at the intercom on the desk. “Barnes - report to my office. Bring Private Paulson.”

“Sir,” came the answer.

Morrison let go of the button. “Hollyhedge House is at your disposal, gentlemen. Please don’t make me regret it.”

 


	5. At Least It's Not Tuesday, Sam

Sherlock marched down the white-painted corridor, his hands behind his back, as he followed Private Paulson. His eyes flicked up the back of the younger man, cataloguing, dissecting.

Paulson stopped. He turned and waved a hand to an open door on his right. “Here we are, sir. These are the uniforms.”

Sherlock nodded and swept in, hands behind his back. Paulson followed more slowly, standing just inside the door and adopting an easy stance.

Sherlock went to the rack of uniforms, the rows of carefully-folded trousers and shirts to one side. He lifted the first few of each pile, his nose barely inches away. “Tell me Private Paulson, does every soldier get the same uniform? From the same place?”

“Yes sir,” he nodded.

“Then how do you tell them apart?”

“Sir?”

“The uniforms, Private. How do you tell them apart?”

“Uh… We don’t need to, sir. They’re assigned to individuals from here and they stay the property of the soldier till they hand them back, sir.”

“And why would they hand them back?” he mused, going to the rack and looking at t-shirts and dress jackets.

“Well… You keep the same outfit, sir. But if you change regiments you need to return your kit here and get a new one from the new regiment, sir.”

“I see,” Sherlock said. “How do you spot the rank of someone in one of these uniforms?”

“The pins on their hats, sir.”

“Thank you.” He straightened up and made a beeline for the door. “You’ve been most helpful.”

“I have, sir?”

“Yes. Take me back to my colleagues.”

“Yes sir,” Paulson said. He went out of the room and closed the door, waving a hand out to invite Sherlock to accompany him down the hallway. “Uh, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Well… do you think there’s any truth to the rumours about ‘em, sir?”

“What rumours?” Sherlock asked.

“They say it was a ghost, sir. Something came for ‘em, some ghost or spirit thing from Afghanistan, cos they were soldiers. Do you think that’s true?”

“Absolutely not,” Sherlock scoffed.

Paulson looked visibly relieved. “That’s a load off, sir.”

“It’s more likely a deranged serial killer with enough strength and combat experience to take down two injured soldiers,” Sherlock went on. “Or perhaps a team, seeing as they had to make sure they left no evidence of any kind.”

“Oh,” Paulson managed, his face a reflection of his fears.

Sherlock glanced at him, frowning at the younger man’s apparent nerves. _John goes on and on about how not to make people produce that face. What was it you’re supposed to say? Uhm, something like_ …  “Not to worry. The killer only targets soldiers who aren’t on active duty.”

“Right,” Paulson swallowed.

_Judging by his eye movement and the way he’s started to sweat, that wasn’t it_ , Sherlock realised. “And… we’ll have this solved soon enough.”

“Right. Yes. Good,” Paulson said.

Sherlock put a hand out. He patted at the man awkwardly.

Paulson walked on. As fast as he could.

 

ooOoo

 

Dean lifted the manilla file, his eyes poring over the details. “Man, that’s some horrific damage right there,” he said to himself.

Sam ‘hmm’ed. “These soldiers really do take a beating and keep on getting up.”

“I was talking about the jeep. Look,” Dean said, turning the photograph in the folder out. Sam just glared at him. Dean looked back at his page. “It’s true what they say, though.” He paused to affect his best attempt at a Hugh Grant accent: “These Brits do just keep calm and carry on.”

John cleared his throat. “Hate to interrupt you when you’re saying such nice things about ‘us Brits’, but have you found anything in common with these three deceased soldiers?”

Sam looked up. “So far? Nothing. Sheila Winters was injured after… she went down two flights of stone steps - on her head. Landed at the bottom just as an FED went off. What’s an FED?”

“Foreign Explosive Device,” John and Dean said together.

Sam ‘huh’ed. “She had a broken leg that ruptured an artery. Was attended to on the scene, evacuated back to the base out there. Was brought back to England three months ago… That’s it. No reason for her leg to spontaneously break and rupture the _same_ artery again.”

Dean lifted his folder to get their attention. “Private Michael Lennery stumbled on an IED. It went—“

“IED?” Sam prompted.

“Improvised Explosive Device,” John and Dean chorused.

“Anyway,” Dean said, “it went off. He shielded another soldier behind him, thinking his armour would take most of the blast. It did, but it pushed pieces of his armour into his lung. Spent a week in Afghanistan, having the pieces removed. When he was stable enough, he was shipped back here, about four months ago.”

“Pretty hardcore,” Sam muttered to himself. He looked at John. “Anything on Bannister?”

“He was caught in crossfire - got one bullet in his neck that nicked an artery, and another bullet in the knee. Smashed his kneecap. Was attended to on the scene, then sent back to rest up.” John closed the folder and looked at the Winchesters across the table. “So… if all these injuries are re-appearing and causing them to die… does that mean Chris Bannister got another bullet in the neck?”

“I think we should find out,” Dean grunted, looking back down at the pile of files. “Have we got a list of everyone sent back to the UK yet?”

“Yes,” Sam said carefully. He looked at John. “It’s just you. No-one else is - well - left.”

John nodded slowly, looking at the table. “I see. I don’t suppose you two know who or what this murderer is yet, do you?”

“Uhm… no. Not yet,” Sam said quietly.

“We will,” Dean said. “Trust us. We will.”

The door opened and Sherlock popped his head round the wood. “There you are. Finished yet?”

“Looks that way,” John said.

“Then let’s go.” He disappeared.

John eyed Sam and then Dean. He crossed to the door.

Sam and Dean shared a long look. Then Sam turned and walked after the doctor. Dean looked around the room, then down at the files. He reached over and picked one up, opening it to leaf through hastily.

There was a knock on the door but he ‘hmm’ed, too interested in what he was reading. He heard boots, and just as he was realising it wasn’t Sam, a shadow stopped by his right elbow. He looked up.

“Finished, Mr Walsh?” Major Morrison asked.

“Major.” He looked back at the sheets and medical forms in the folder, then back at her. “What do _you_ think is going on here?”

“At best? Someone who has it in for the army. The type who thinks we’re all brain-washed servants of a Royal family we should no longer have, ‘in this day and age’. At worst?” She paused to sigh, looking at her boots. “Someone with a problem with honour, and a need for revenge. —And medication.”

He closed the folder, putting it back on the table with the others. “Stalking the injured… that’s not very honourable,” he prompted.

“Bloody right it’s not,” she snapped with anger. “If I could get my hands on whoever this is—“

“We’ll do it for you,” he said suddenly. 

She looked at him. “Promise me, Mr Walsh.”

He gave a small, grim smile. “It’s what we do.”

She nodded. “Then…” She produced a white business card from the thigh pocket of her combats and offered it to him. “Good hunting, sir. I’m relying on you to inform me of the outcome.”

“I will, Major.” He read the card and nodded to her before he walked out. 

She watched him go. Then she picked up the folder he had dropped, finding the words ‘Captain John Watson’ on the cover. She frowned and put it back with the others, lifting them all together and carrying them to the filing cabinets in the corner.

 

ooOoo

 

Sherlock dropped his heavy coat over the back of his armchair, twirling and landing in it with the grace of an Olympic figure skater. John, however, went straight to the kitchenette of 221B Baker Street and began filling the kettle with water.

Sam and Dean came up the stairs and went into the front room, but it was Sam who cleared his throat and waited for Sherlock to look up. He did. Sam shifted his weight uncomfortably. “So… You know John is the only other name on the list, right?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said simply.

Dean sat himself down on the sofa. “And he was invalided back here because he took shrapnel to his shoulder. Took them two attempts to get it all out. So if this thing does try to catch up with him, then it’s going for his shoulder.”

“It won’t get that close,” Sherlock said dismissively.

Dean raised his eyebrows. “You sure?”

“Yes. There’s a reason I asked _you two_ to come over. You know about these things. Have you identified what could own that feather yet?” he asked, somewhat coldly.

Sam gave a small shrug. “Uh… not yet.”

“Based on its MO, it’s not an angel,” Dean said.

Sam turned to look at him. “Sure?”

“Come on, Sam. This thing is targeting people that nearly died, but didn’t. It’s like… It’s like it’s stalking the sick and injured, separating them from the crowd, killing them on their own. No witnesses, right? And no evidence left behind except a feather. You know what I think? I think it’s revenge - they’re pissed these people survived.”

“Or they’re angry they didn’t die in a blaze of glory for their country,” Sam said.

“So what is it, a klingon? I mean, come on, Sam. What do we know that would do that?” Dean scoffed.

Sherlock’s eyes went from one brother to another. 

Sam paced the room. “What about a reaper?”

“They don’t have wings,” Dean said.

“Then… an angel of death of some kind.”

“ _Which_ kind? If we knew that, we could summon it maybe. Sort this out right here.”

“One with feathers,” Sam shrugged.

“Thank you, Captain Obvious.”

John came out of the kitchen, his hands in his pockets. “Has anyone looked at the map?” he asked. Sherlock immediately shot out of his chair and grabbed an atlas from the bookshelf, leafing through it. “It’s just,” John said, watching the detective, “if you look at the location of Sheila Winters’ death, and then Mike Lennery’s, and then Chris Bannister’s… they’re on a bit of a zig zag line. But whatever is doing this, it’s coming this way.”

Sam and Dean looked at him. John appraised his feet, then disappeared back into the kitchen.

Sherlock hissed something thankfully unintelligible as he studied at the map in his hands. “He’s correct.”

“That helps,” Dean said. Sam frowned at him. “No, it does,” Dean said. “Think about it - this thing had a list, and it’s working its way down. By location. At least we know it can think, and it’s not just some mindless killing machine.”

“True,” Sherlock mused, as if to himself.

Sam threw his hands out. “How does that help?”

Dean looked up. “Sam - we have to find this thing before it finds John. Where do we start?”

“The usual,” Sam shrugged. “Get me a computer and some coffee.”

“You get on that,” Dean said. He stood up. “I’ll show Sherlock and John how to magic-trap this place.”

“Against what exactly?” Sherlock asked.

“Everything I know how,” Dean breathed.

 

ooOoo

 

Sherlock stood back from the main door, shaking his spray can. “And what is this again?”

“A devil’s trap,” Dean said, backing away from the window. “Stops demons.”

“Fascinating,” Sherlock breathed, his eyes on his handiwork on the inside of the wooden entrance to his front room. He turned and looked at the window beyond Dean. “And those?”

“Angel sigils. They’ll stop anyone feathery getting in. I think.”

“You think?” John asked.

Dean turned and looked to find him seated on the arm of the sofa. He appeared to be watching Sam, sitting in the middle of said furniture, as the Winchester paged through items on the net. Dean straightened up. “The sigils are made for angels. Until I know what this thing is, this is the best I got.”

“Fair enough,” John sighed. He leant down again, watching as Sam navigated page after page on John’s laptop. Sam’s mouth moved slightly as he echoed what he read, before ditching that page and reading the next one. “There!” John said suddenly. “What’s that?”

“That doesn’t have feathers,” Sam said, pre-occupied. “We need something that appears to be clearing up battlefields, tending to soldiers…” He huffed. Then his eyes widened. “Got it! I think.”

“What is it?” Dean asked, putting down his spray can and crossing the room. He squinted at the laptop screen from the opposite side. “Well?”

“It’s an angel of death,” Sam said, turning the laptop round. Sherlock appeared behind John, his eyes scanning the webpage. “It’s supposed to usher soldiers into the afterlife,” Sam added. “Maybe it doesn’t know that these soldiers aren’t dead.”

“Maybe it just doesn’t agree with Obamacare,” Dean grumped.

“It says… this thing is from native American lore,” Sherlock read. “Why would it be after John? —And soldiers from Afghanistan?”

“I have no idea,” Sam shrugged. “But its feathers might match - they’re not born a human or an animal that then mutates, they just have those wings from wherever they start from, like angels. They’re not human; they won’t have DNA.”

“DNA that we recognise,” Sherlock corrected. He nodded. “Seems sound. What do we do to stop them?”

Dean straightened up. “Well, we got angel sigils all over - so they should affect an angel of death, right?”

“We might want to add some native American warnings too,” Sam said.

“I’ll get my paint,” Dean said. He turned and walked to the other side of the room, picking up his spray can again. Sam started reading again, then changed pages. He reached for his notebook.

John pushed himself off the arm of the sofa, swinging his hands around and banging his fists together. “What can I do?”

“You can get comfortable in that chair,” Dean said. “We’ll take shifts to watch you. When this thing tries to get in, we’ll kill it.”

“How?” John asked.

Dean looked at his brother. “Sam?”

Sam lifted a palm slowly. “We… can… stake it. With something made of metal. Can’t be an alloy.”

“How about iron?” Sherlock asked.

“Perfect.”

Sherlock went to the fireplace, picking up a poker with a wicked, jagged tip. Dean raised his eyebrows, nodded in approval, and then crossed the room to the sofa. He went through his duffle by the side, rummaging around. Then he brought out a shiny silver spike with a handle.

“What’s that?” Sherlock asked, entranced.

“A Holy Spike of Antioch,” Dean said. “They wouldn’t let me bring the Holy Hand Grenade through Border Control.”

“Did you have to go to Antioch to get it?” Sherlock asked, prepared to be impressed.

Dean turned and looked at him - just looked. 

John hid a grin as best he could. “He’s kidding, Sherlock. Like Big Bird. And Sesame Street.”

“Sesame Street is in Antioch?” Sherlock asked, very surprised.

Dean’s face scrunched into an attempt to somehow straighten out the entire universe in one go. He shook his head, let his eyebrows convey his utter resignation, and looked over at Sam. “This’ll work on an angel of death, right?”

Sam was grinning. He cleared his throat and frowned, trying to make himself look professional. “Uh - yeah. Should do. At least, it should wound it.”

“Well that’s a start,” Dean nodded. He turned and looked at John, who was still scratching the back of his head and trying not to laugh. “So we slap a few more banishments on the windows and the door, and we’re good.”

“Right. Yes. Good,” John nodded. “Where do I start?”

Dean took the paint can from Sherlock, and the two went into the kitchen. John crossed the room and Sam pointed at pictures on the laptop, explaining angles and shapes, before John picked up a spray can and went to the windows onto the street.

When Dean and Sherlock came out of the kitchen, Dean was carrying steaming mugs. Sherlock was carrying a sugar bowl and a milk jug, both of which he put on the table by John’s recently painted windows. He stood back to survey the symbols and shapes, as John took a coffee and gave it to Sam.

The four of them drank in silence, as the Winchesters checked windows and doors, window sills and corners, ceilings and light fittings. Eventually, after take away pizza had arrived and they had discussed angels of death at length, Sam and Sherlock checked the lateness of the hour before disappearing for some much-needed rest.

John got comfortable in his armchair, a blanket over his legs. Dean stretched out on his back on the sofa, his hands behind his head, sniffing to himself.

“Are you sure you don’t mind taking first watch?” John asked quietly.

“Yep.”

“Uhm… Can I ask you a question?”

“Yep.”

“Have you killed an angel of death before?”

“Yep.”

“Ah.” John thought for a second. “And… did you rescue whomever it was the angel wanted?”

“Yep.”

“Oh. Good.”

It went quiet, and apart from the John’s nervous watching of the clock, nothing at all marred the peace and serenity of the front room. Time was ticked away on the mantelpiece, the curtains lit up from time to time with the headlights of cars turning the street corner a way down the road, but otherwise, absolutely nothing made either man twitch.

John turned his head to appraise Dean, but far from being asleep as he had suspected, Dean’s eyes were definitely staring down the curtains as if they owed him fresh pie.

Time moved on. John checked his watch to find it already creeping into the wee hours. He noticed Dean’s eyes were still open.

Presently, Dean stirred. He plunged a hand into his jeans pocket for his phone, before remembering the only people who had his UK number were in the same flat. He sniffed and pushed it back into its hiding place.

Time sloped by.

They heard feet on the stairs, and then Sherlock’s voice heralded his entrance. Dean relaxed back into the sofa, the angel spike next to him, as the detective walked through and went to the kitchen, mumbling something about experiments.

John just shook his head, prepared to ignore the goings-on behind him. Sam’s head poked round the door ajar and he raised his eyebrows at Dean.

Dean noticed and looked back at him. “What is this, a slumber party?” he asked. “You’re taking second watch, Sam. Sleep while you can.”

“You know it’s nearly six a.m., right?” Sam said apologetically. “I guess I kinda slept too long.”

Dean sat up slowly, stretching out and rubbing the back of his neck. “No harm done. You get the next six hours is all.” He scrubbed his hands over his face.

Sam’s smile melted away. His head tilted. “Can you hear that?”

Dean sat up, snatching up the spike. Sherlock shot out of the kitchen. “Hear what?” he demanded.

“I don’t know,” Sam said. He came into the room proper, closing the door behind him. “Just… like a ‘whop whop’ sound.”

John rolled his eyes. “Please tell me it’s not that loony with the blue box.”

“You’ve met him too?” Dean asked in surprise.

Sam gave a loud ‘sshh!’.

Everyone froze.

And then the windows smashed inward.

Glass flew across the room. They stabbed into the carpet. People covered faces, eyes, for safety. And then looked up.

And found a woman, covered in metal amour, standing in the middle of the room. The dull silver metal and the grey tabard hanging over the top shouted their strange, black markings at everyone assembled. Her blonde hair had been plaited into three sections, two of them tumbling from under her helmet at the ear shields and one down the back. The helmet itself was a study in beautiful craftsmanship, a polished, outstanding example of a headguard that came down her nose to protect. Over each ear shield was a single red feather. Large, off-white wings were folding themselves back behind her, quivering as if waiting to stretch out. She seemed a little unstable, before she shook herself and drew herself up. Again she staggered and took a step forward. She put a hand to the tabard over her breastplate, breathing slowly. Then she looked up at the faces watching her.

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open. “Magnificent!” he breathed. “Sam - it’s your angel of death!”

Sam’s eyes were large and round. “No, it’s not,” he said, finding his voice. “It’s a valkyrie.”

 


	6. Mid Season Finale

 

The woman tried to stand tall, but again she found it hard. “Wha—.” She regrouped, looking at the four faces. She found John watching her with wide eyes. Weak morning sun was breaking into the room around her, giving her an oddly ethereal glow. “Ah. John Watson. My name is Skalmöld,” she said, smiling. John took a step back. She put a hand up. “Do not be worried. I have come for you - again. To claim your noble soul for Valhalla, as I should have done on the battlefield in the country you call Afghanistan. I was late; you were gone. But here we both are. Please, come with me.”

Dean shuffled to his left, covering most of her view of John - who seemed as shocked as he was. “You’re an actual valkyrie?” Dean asked.

“I am,” she said. “Please, do not be afraid. I am only here to escort John Watson. I have no business with any of you.”

“Oh but you do,” Sherlock said. “What gives you the right to take John anywhere?”

She looked him up and down, before she wobbled slightly, almost losing her footing. Her wings flinched, as if to keep her steady. “What… what have you done… to this place?” Her hands went out to balance her.

“Sealed it - or tried to - against you and your kind,” Sam said. “You can’t have John. You have to leave.”

“But… I’m here _for_ him,” she said, confused. “What gives you the right to prevent him from entering Valhalla?”

“Don’t you have to be dead to go there?” Sam argued.

“He is,” Skalmöld said, her face still one of confusion.

John put his hand up. “Um - no, not really. Hi. John Watson. Still alive.”

“John Watson,” she said sadly, “I have been charged by Odin himself. I must find worthy soldiers for Valhalla. You will receive mead and meat, and rest, until Ragnarök.”

“Ragnarök?” Sherlock said. “What’s that?”

Dean looked at his brother. “Well? You’re the walking encyclopaedia - what is it?”

Sam didn’t even bother frowning at him. Instead he kept his eyes on Skalmöld. “Ragnarök is like… the end of the world. It’s a series of real bad events until it all comes down to a great battle. Apparently, it’s foretold that this battle will eventually cause the deaths of a load of Norse gods - like Odin and Thor, Týr and Freyr, Heimdallr - even the trickster, Loki.”

“Damn,” Dean muttered, apparently to himself. “I kinda liked that guy.”

Sam glared at him - _glared_. Dean noticed. He shrugged innocently.

Sam looked back at Skalmöld. “So there’ll be fall-out from the battle, like natural disaster fall-out, until the world is covered in water. Some time after, no-one really knows when, the world will just kinda resurface, and it’ll be new again - green, clean, reset. The surviving Norse gods will meet up, and the other gods will return, and the world will be repopulated by two human survivors.” He paused. “That’s all I know.”

“Yes!” Skalmöld said cheerfully, pointing at him. “It is as you say. This is why I need John Watson - to be a soldier for Odin. Odin will win, and not die as foretold. I need John Watson - all of us do.”

There was a long silence. Dean looked round at John to find him with his mouth hanging open.

“Excuse me,” John said in a small voice. “Do you mean you want me to be a soldier - for a god?”

“Yes,” Skalmöld said. “It is your right, your privilege. You will fight for Odin, and in return he shall make you immortal.”

“No, wait, sorry,” John said, his hands going out in surrender. “I’m supposed to believe that Norse gods are real, they’re still around, and they want _me_ , of all people, to be a soldier for their side?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “It is the truth. Are you ready?”

John threw his hands up in sheer resignation at the dawn’s events. Skalmöld began to approach him, her hand outstretched.

Dean stepped in front of him deliberately. “Listen, Scaramouche—“

“Skalmöld,” she said.

“Whatever,” he said, annoyed. “Odin’s forces will get long just fine without John here. Got it? He’s not going with you.”

“But…” She frowned, shaking her head. “But who _wouldn’t_ want such honour? Such purpose?”

“John here ain’t about to be burdened with any of your glorious purpose. You need to cross him off your list and move on,” Dean growled.

Sherlock stepped back slowly, but the room ignored him as he sidled round behind John - and therefore Dean.

“But,” Skalmöld said, “it’s my purpose. My _only_ purpose. I have been charged with this mission by Odin himself. I cannot return without John Watson. I will be punished.”

“We’re real sorry to hear that,” Dean said. “Honest, we are. But he’s not going with you.”

“Why John?” Sam asked suddenly. Skalmöld turned to look at him, away from the other three. “Any soldier should do, right? Why does it have to be John?”

Skalmöld sighed unhappily. “The land you call Afghanistan - it lies in my purview.”

“But we’re not _in_ Afghanistan,” Sam argued.

“Ah, the convenient logic of youth,” she said with a warm smile. “No, we are not. But that is where the killing blow was dealt.”

Sam put his palm out in some kind of halting gesture as he moved closer. “Right - yes - but ‘killing blows’ aren’t ‘killing blows’ any more,” he said, adrenaline lending conviction to his tone. “Blows and weapons that would have killed someone twenty _years_ ago - never mind centuries ago - don’t have to kill someone now. There _was_ no killing blow - it was just an injury that healed.”

Skalmöld folded her hands behind her back, watching Sam with a tilt to her head. “Interesting,” she said. “Times change, but your argument is pointless; I am timeless. So is the call to Valhalla.”

“Wait - are you saying I should have died in Afghanistan?” John asked quietly. She looked at him, noticed Sherlock sidling away from Dean’s right. “Am I living on borrowed time?” John added.

Dean’s hands went up as if to bring the entire world to a halt. “No-one’s living on borrowed time, here,” he said, turning his head over his left shoulder slightly, toward John. “You didn’t die in Afghanistan - you weren’t _supposed_ to die in Afghanistan - and this lady’s not taking you anywhere.” He looked at Skalmöld. “It don’t matter how many soldiers Odin has, or how good those soldiers are - this Ragnarök thing? This end of the world thing? It’ll play out either way, and there’s nothing you can do about it. The world’s trying to end, and having a few more soldiers ain’t going to change a damn thing.”

“Are you starting that crap up again, Dean?” Sam said angrily.

Dean refused to acknowledge him, instead keeping his eyes on Skalmöld. “Bottom line? You’re not harming John.”

Skalmöld’s face turned sad. She brought her hands out from behind her - and then her large, off-white wings unfolded themselves to stretch ten feet in either direction. “I do not harm. I escort. It is forbidden for me, or any valkyrie, to harm a soldier for Odin.” She pulled herself up to stand tall and put a single hand out toward John. “Take my hand, John Watson. We must go.”

Dean moved one more step, to completely eclipse John in her line of sight. “Lady - seriously. No.”

She frowned. She took a step forward. “Please, you must move,” she urged. “You must not interfere.”

Sam made a move to close on the three of them. Dean’s arm went out to bar Skalmöld’s way to John. Still her hand reached. Dean moved him back; she took a step closer. Dean stepped into her way. Her hand gripped his shoulder. She pushed. Dean didn’t move.

“You are strong indeed,” Skalmöld said, impressed. “But you smell of… Ragnarök,” she added, confused. “How can that be?”

“So I ain’t showered since this morning,” Dean said. “There’s no need to be rude.”

She pulled; he put a hand up and gripped her wrist. Her face went dark with effort. He grunted something unkind and wrenched. Her other hand came up and her palm closed on his cheek.

Sam stretched his hand out in fear. “No!”

Her hand touched at Dean’s face. The effect was immediate. He plummeted to the floor faster than John’s head could follow.

She looked up at John. “He is unharmed. You will come with me now, John.” 

John stared down at Dean. “Wait - no! Is he—“

“He is resting only,” Skalmöld said patiently. “Now we can leave.”

Abruptly she was yanked back a few inches. She coughed out her shock. Something jerked her left wing down. Then she _screamed_.

Sherlock stood back, a single off-white feather in his left hand. His right was still holding onto the angel spike - that he had driven through her wing and pinned to the table. He ignored her pain, her anger, her struggling. His eyes were glued to the feather in front of them. “Intriguing,” he breathed.

Skalmöld turned and wrenched. The spike slit the wing until it was free. She staggered to the empty window frame. A single jump and she was gone.

Sam and John ran to the frame and looked out, their mouths open. The streetlamps showed nothing but pavement and the odd passing cab. They turned and stared instead at Sherlock.

He noticed and looked up from his inspection of the feather. “What?” he asked innocently. He released the handle of the angel spike and glanced around the front room. “Oh look at that. Mrs Hudson’s going to want to increase our security deposit again.”

 

ooOoo

 

Sam turned from the window and went to his brother. Dean was still where he had dropped, flat out on his back on tiny shards of glass in the carpet. Sam grabbed his head. “Dean,” he cried into his face. “You ok?”

Dean’s eyes struggled to open. “ ’M fine,” he grunted. 

Sam helped him back to his feet. They lurched over to the sofa, where Sam left him to collapse into the soft surface as if all his bones had turned to marshmallow. “What the hell did she do to you?”

“Nothing - I’m ok,” Dean said with the utmost lethargy.

John ignored Sherlock and his feather to stand in front of Dean. “Anything hurt?” he asked.

Dean looked up at him, then rubbed his hands over his face. “Don’t think so. Just…”

“Drained?” Sam hazarded.

“Is that how they kill people?” John asked. He crouched and pushed two fingers into Dean’s pulse as he waited for his watch to count off ten seconds. Dean just looked up at him and waited.

Sam watched, Dean’s lack of a reaction sparking worry. “That’s the thing… valkyries don’t kill people,” he said, folding his arms.

John nodded at his watch. Then he stood and looked at Sherlock. “Where did you get that weapon?” he asked.

Sherlock tore his gaze away from the feather. “You mean the silver-looking stake? I lifted it from Dean’s back pocket when he was talking with Skalmöld.”

“Thanks,” Dean grunted.

“And _what the bloody hell were you doing_ , by the way?” John demanded. “You stabbed her! In the wing! With a supernatural spike!”

Sherlock turned his head and studied John’s face for a long moment. “I needed a feather to test.” He pushed himself away from the table and crunched his way through broken glass in the direction of the kitchen. He disappeared inside and the sounds of metal and pans rattling announced to the front room just how important he considered further conversation to be.

John blew out a huff of consternation so huge even Sam was impressed. The army medic went to the angel spike still jammed into the table. He looked at the empty window frame, the chilly breeze sliding through it and over his face. Shaking his head, he grasped the spike in both hands. He yanked it out with a single tug, walking over and handing it to Sam. “Do you know what she is? —What do we do now?”

Sam let his arms drop from their angry fold. “Give me a laptop and I can be sure in ten minutes.”

John waved a hand behind him, toward Sherlock’s chair. The computer was on the arm where it was watching the front room with avid attention. Sam went straight to it and opened it up, pressing the power button and waiting.

John looked back at the empty window frame for a long moment, appreciating suddenly how the temperature had dropped, how dawn was eking out lines of fresh sun and pink clouds across the dingy skyline. Then he crouched in front of Dean, moving the man’s hand from his chin and tipping his head back. “Open your eyes - look up,” he advised. Dean just frowned at him. Hard. John frowned back. “Do it,” he said. Dean’s eyes went to the ceiling and stayed there. John tilted his head up, his thumbs going under Dean’s eyes to bring the skin down so he could peer at something. He released him again, apparently satisfied with whatever it was he saw. Then he felt Dean’s forehead and took his pulse one more time. Dean simply watched, apparently slightly amused. John removed his fingers.

“I’m ok, man,” Dean said.

“You seem to be,” John said, straightening up again. “You shouldn’t have jumped in front of me like that.”

“Were you gonna go with her?” Dean said seriously.

“Not at all.”

“Then I should have jumped in front of you like that.” He assessed John’s look of exasperation and waved it off. “Look, don’t worry about it. She’s gone - but she knows where you live. Now we plan how to trap or kill her.”

“Wait a minute,” John said. “We don’t have to kill her, do we? I mean she didn’t hurt anyone here. She could have done - but she didn’t.” He paused. “She was even… polite.”

“She _was_ kinda nice about the whole thing,” Sam agreed from the other side of the room.

“She’s killed three soldiers!” came Sherlock’s voice from the kitchen.

John huffed in disquiet. “Yes, but… did she? She said she wanted to take me somewhere, not kill me. And she didn’t kill Dean, so maybe—“

“Don’t matter,” Dean argued, his voice rough. “She’s gonna come back for John, right? Ultimately, we’ll have to stop her taking him. If that means killing her, then so be it.”

“We can’t,” Sam announced. “We don’t have anything that will do the job.”

“Then we improvise,” Dean said.

Feet hammered to a stop just by the front door and they looked over to find Mrs Hudson standing in the doorway. ”Oh my life!” she cried, aghast. She pulled her dressing gown around herself tightly. “What have you done to my windows!”

John went to her quickly. “We’ll get them replaced this morning,” he said soothingly. “We just had an accident.”

“An accident! What the devil—“

“Sorry about the mess,” Sam interrupted. “Look, we’ll help you get the place fixed up again.”

“Oh my word,” she breathed, crossing the room to look out. “However did you—“

“Mrs Hudson, it’s fine, really,” John said. “We’ll get the windows seen to. I promise. And _Sherlock_ will pay for them.”

“But how did you break them like this?” she asked, anguished, as she looked at the crunchy shards beneath her slippers. “Oh dear,” she moaned. 

Sherlock thrust his head out of the kitchen. “A valkyrie smashed the window. She came for John but we got rid of her,” he said flatly.

“Why do I even ask?” she muttered to herself.

“So it’s Thursday _now_ , right?” Dean asked.

Mrs Hudson turned and went back to the door. She stopped and looked round at them all. “You boys better get all the glass out of my carpet. _All_ of it. And I want the windows replaced _today_ , Sherlock. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, yes, today!” he called from somewhere back inside the kitchen.

Mrs Hudson tutted in clear worry and shook her head. Then she turned and disappeared from the door.

Sam cleared his throat, pulling a face that spoke volumes on apologetic self-kickery. “Yeah. Do you have like a window company we can call?”

“Before any of that - in fact, before anyone does _anything_ ,” John said, “can someone please explain what a valkyrie actually _is?_ I thought it was a large lady in a big hat with horns on the sides. What was this Skal-mee—. Skal-mau—“

“Skalmöld!” Sherlock called from the kitchen.

John pointed in his direction. “What was she doing coming for me?”

Dean had his elbows planted on his knees, his head in his hands so they could run through his hair. He held onto the back of his head to look at the floor. “Sam?” he said wearily. “Do the lore thing. I can’t get up.”

“You sure you’re ok?” Sam asked from across the room.

“Well I’m feelin’ like a Monday but someday I’ll be Saturday night,” Dean muttered. He looked to his left, found the sofa empty, and let himself topple over. His head hit the cushion and his eyes closed. The rest was silence.

Sam and John looked at each other. Sherlock came out of the kitchen, his hands on his hips. “Well?” he asked. “We need data, Sam.”

Sam cleared his throat and looked down at the laptop. “Right. So… people have this idea about valkyries, but actually the real ones are a whole lot different to—“

“Excuse me - real ones?” John asked. “You mean she’s _real_ \- valkyries are _real?_ I’m _not_ imagining all this?”

“No,” Sam said with a small, whimsical smile. “She’s real alright. And so are valkyries. Only, they’re not what people think.”

“Explain,” Sherlock said crisply, folding his arms.

“So get this - originally valkyries were angels of death. They flew over battlefields and took soldiers or fighters that were supposed to die, because that’s what Odin told them to do.”

“You mean Odin king of the Norse gods?” John asked.

“Odin _father_ of the Norse gods, yes,” Sam said. “So these female angels of death chose heroes who they thought were worth it and took their souls to Valhalla - like Heaven for people who enjoy the fight, or their definition of ‘proper’ warriors. They get immortality if they fight for Odin’s army when the end of the world comes.”

“Like she said,” Sherlock nodded. “Well?”

“Later the story was changed - popularised by the Volsung Saga and Niebelungenlied. In it, the main woman was called Brunhild, and made out to be a beautiful _fallen_ valkyrie. Her and all valkyries were described as ‘beautiful swan maidens’ who picked up souls and took them to Valhalla. They were mostly Odin’s ‘shield-maidens’, a bunch of blonde virgins who were basically serving wenches in Valhalla, to all the warriors there waiting for the end of the world.”

“Hooters in Asgard,” Dean muttered from the sofa.

The three of them looked at him. Sherlock and John looked back at Sam. He cleared his throat and glanced at the laptop again.

“So… anyways. These later myths made the valkyries out to be more vulnerable, less of a fighter and more of some vacuous maiden who served mead. According to the popular stories, they went around falling in love with mortal heroes and getting trapped on Earth by people catching them without their swan plumage.”

“How does that help us?” Sherlock asked, his eyes narrowed in thought.

“I don’t know yet,” Sam sighed. “I do know that this one, this Skalmöld is a real, actual soul-taker, an angel of death. This whole thing about love and plumage? It’s crap. They’re fighters when they need to be, but mostly they just collect people - and they are forbidden from killing. You saw what happened to Dean.”

“And she said herself that she only escorted, not killed,” Sherlock mused. “Can we use that?”

“Valkyrie escort services,” Dean muttered from the sofa, his eyes still closed. “Mmmm.”

John flicked his eyes to the ceiling this time, determined not to turn around. “What do we do?” he asked Sam clearly.

“Give me some time. I can figure out a way to stop her from getting to you. There must be sigils or banishment curses we can use.”

“Just get her to take John off her list,” Dean mumbled. “It’s cleaner.”

Sherlock looked over at Dean suddenly. He crossed the room and looked down at him, folding his arms. His eyes narrowed.

John looked at Sam. “What can I do?” he asked. “How can I help you?”

“First we look for a way to stop her coming back - fast. We need to speed up the search. Do you have a second laptop?”

“Mine’s in my room,” John said. “Come with me.”

Sam got up and took Sherlock’s laptop with him. The two of them went for the open door.

“Sherlock - I’ll call the window bloke. You _behave_ ,” John said sternly. The detective was still standing in front of an ostensibly sleeping Dean, his face one of intense pre-occupation. John pointed at him. “Do _not_ do any experiments on him whilst he’s asleep.”

“Of course not, John,” he scoffed. John sent him one more warning glance before leaving with Sam in tow. Sherlock looked back down at Dean. “Not before my morning tea, anyway.”

 


	7. 9\8 Central

Sherlock was perched in John’s chair, his legs crossed underneath him, watching the two glaziers banging and hammering at the window frame. They chatted away to John and Mrs Hudson, who were only too happy to explain that the faster the men produced new double-glazing, the more their call-out fee would be embellished with a tip.

Sherlock’s elbows went into the cushioned armrests and his fingers steepled themselves under his chin. He continued to watch, his eyes sinking half closed, until the men began to clear up tools. The taller, dark-haired one was wiping the edge of some sealant with a rag, advising against touching anything for a few hours, whilst the other was totting up an invoice on a hand-held card reading device.

Sam came in through the door but stopped dead when he saw the number of people in the room. He looked at Sherlock and found him already scrutinising him. Sam gestured to the open door with his head before turning and leaving. Sherlock got up abruptly. He crossed the room and was out, closing the door quietly behind him.

John took the card reader from the glazier and put a Visa card into it, pressing the requisite buttons. “Look, you’ve been amazing - even clearing up the other broken glass for us. And I’ve got to say, I thought you’d be more expensive for such a call-out.”

The man took the device back, waiting for the receipt to print. “Nah. We can always bump someone for Mr Holmes.”

“Do you know Sherlock then?” Mrs Hudson asked.

“He found our accountant was siphoning funds into his own pocket,” the man smiled. “Funny really, now I come to think of it - it took him less than half an hour to work out who was nicking our money, when it had gone and how we should break it to the police. Saved us a few thousand, did Mr Holmes. Always happy to fix his windows on the cheap side.”

“Oh well then,” Mrs Hudson said with a smile. “Can I get you another cup of tea before you go?”

The other man backed up from the window, pulling the beanie hat a little further down his blonde hair. “We’ll be off, if you don’t mind. We bumped two jobs to get over this side of the city.”

“Yeah - sorry about that,” John said. “You could have just made us wait.”

“No trouble,” the man grinned. 

The door burst open and Sherlock stopped by John’s chair. He clapped his hands. “Alright! Time to go! Clear up, come on, be gone with you!” he ordered.

Mrs Hudson scowled at him, but the two glaziers seemed to take it all in their stride. They hauled up their duffle bags of tools and got in friendly partings with John and Mrs Hudson before nodding to Sherlock and going for the door. 

Sherlock followed and then grasped the door handle. “You too please, Mrs Hudson.”

“I was already going,” she said defensively. “I just had to check the windows were done right. For my house insurance, you know. They have to be a certain grade or my coverage is all—“

“Yes yes - go and be boring somewhere else,” he commanded. John smacked a hand into his arm but he ignored him. 

Mrs Hudson looked at John. “You be careful, you two. Even with all this mess, I’d rather the windows were broken than you.”

“Thanks,” John said with a warm smile. She turned and fled.

Sherlock closed the door. “ _Finally_ ,” he heaved. “Now, we need to get to a place where we can get you struck off Skalmöld’s list.”

“What?”

“Keep up, John. Dean said it and he was right - the only way to make sure that Skalmöld won’t come for you is to get you taken off the list. Sam has a ritual he wants to do. He predicts with a ninety percent probability that it will remove you from the hit-list.”

“He said that? He said ninety percent?” John scoffed.

“Not until pressed.” Sherlock went to his chair, snatching his phone from the arm. He began to hastily touch at it with his thumbs.

“Where are we going? Did he say?” John asked, folding his arms and watching Sherlock with curiosity.

“Not… yet. He’s… looking,” he muttered, wholly pre-occupied.

The door opened again and Sam’s head poked in. “Hey. Uhm - I have a list of ingredients for the ritual. Me and Dean would normally carry half of it in the trunk of the car… but we couldn’t get it out of the States.”

Sherlock flapped a hand to summon him. “Give me the list. I may have some of it here.” 

Sam went into the room carrying his duffle. “So… Dean’s awake. Mrs Hudson’s noticed and she’s trying to get him to eat a… a ‘bacon buttie’, I think she called it.”

“That’ll wake him up,” John grinned.

“Actually, I think it was the smell of her coffee that woke him in the first place,” Sam said apologetically. He fished inside the bag and brought out a notebook. After leafing through, he tore one page free and handed it to Sherlock.

“So what is this ritual? What do we do? Get painted up and dance in the rain?” John asked with a whimsical smile.

“Thankfully, no,” Sam grinned. “We need to find a suitable place first, then lay this stuff on the ground. You stand in it and we use it to… uh… brand you.”

“Brand me?” John asked. “Like a real _burning_ iron pressed into my skin until it painfully _burns_ a shape in it?”

“What? No!” Sam said, horrified. “It’s like a spiritual marker. These valkyries go off your life force, or your soul, whatever. We just put a brand on _that_ to show you’re not marked for Valhalla. Kind of like a stamp that says ‘void’ on an envelope - you’re just the letter.”

“Oh,” John said, much relieved.

“These ingredients…” Sherlock began, reading the handwritten notes. “Some of them will be tricky.”

“Let me see,” John said. “Maybe I could get some from a surgery, if a pharmacy doesn’t have it.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Sherlock said slyly, turning the page in his hand to bring it into John’s eye line.

He read slowly. “Does that say ‘powdered unicorn hair’?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said.

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again - you lot are _nutters_ ,” John said flatly.

Dean knocked on the outside of the door even as he shoved his head round. “Hey. Are we collecting ingredients now?”

The three of them looked at him. John took the paper from Sherlock and brandished it at Dean. “This says powdered unicorn hair,” he accused.

“Damn,” Dean grunted. “We had like - what - a few ounces of that in the trunk of the Impala?” he asked Sam.

John stared. Then he turned and looked at Sherlock. “Where are we going to get this stuff? Ask a Princess Bride?”

“I think we need to pay a visit to the Atlantis Bookshop,” Sherlock said. “They should have most of these ingredients.”

“And then where do we go? You said we needed a ‘suitable place’ for this ritual thing,” John pointed out.

“Sam?” Sherlock asked.

Sam picked up the notebook, flipping through it quickly. He stopped on a page to read. “Uh - right. According to what I found, we need a place that’s made of ‘brick from the land’… and… surrounded by trees old enough to have roots longer than John is tall… and iron on the roof. It’s some kind of soul conductor thing.”

“Great. Where are we going to find a place like that?” John asked.

Dean put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a white business card and his phone. He thumbed at the speed dial and put it to his ear. The others watched, but when Sam tried to ask, Dean held the card up in a plea for patience. Sam frowned at him with all the condemnation his eyebrows would lend - which was a shedload more than most people could handle. Dean, however, was less than perturbed. He waited as he listened to the phone line - then he cleared his throat. “Oh hi, yeah. Major Morrison, please. Yes you can - it’s Captain Steve Walsh, on loan from RAF Molesworth. Thanks.” He let the card and hand drop as he sniffed to himself.

Sam put his hands up in a question. 

Dean shook his head dismissively. “Oh hey,” he said suddenly, although his eyes went to Sherlock. “Yeah, me again. So guess what? I told you we’d find this guy whacking your troops, right? Well we did - except it’s a woman. Yeah, what are the odds? We need a place to take her down, and your Hollyhedge House is perfect.” He paused to listen. “Shipped out this afternoon? Awesome. How’s the place fixed for spray paint and glass windows?” He paused. “Iron rods? Great. Yeah. We’ll leave here soon, get to you ASAP. Any room in a bunkhouse for four?” He paused even as he nodded. “Yeah, four. That’d be great. Ok then. A coupla hours? Yeah. Thanks. We owe you one, Major.” He let the phone drop and beamed at Sam. “Who’s awesome? Huh? Huh?”

“What did she say?” Sam asked flatly.

“She said that not only have all of the soldiers’ COs shipped out this afternoon, but we can bunk there while we sort all this crap out. She’s even posting the place off limits to army traffic until we’re done,” he grinned.

“Wow,” John said, surprised.

“Well she _does_ think I’m an intelligence officer for the joint USAF RAF thing,” Dean shrugged.

“I’m still surprised she fell for _that_ ,” Sam snorted.

Dean frowned at him. “Can we get our crap packed and go now, please?”

 

ooOoo

 

The ride back to Hollyhedge House was more in the vein of a hastily convened planning session on wheels. The same large saloon whisked them along, whilst the driver, a woman of indeterminate age and apparently no social skills whatsoever, was more intent on the road than her chatty passengers.

“So we mix this stuff, spread it in like a small circle, and John stands on it,” Sam was saying. He was turned in the front passenger seat, watching the three of them in the back. John was in the middle, a notepad and pencil in his hand, as he tried to get scratchings down on paper to aid his memory.

“And you have to say a few words,” Dean said, his nose buried in a familiar leather bound book. “That’s it. Job done.” He looked up at John. “We’ll be watching you. If anyone tries anything, we’ll keep ’em off you long enough for you to finish. Whatever happens, you do not get off that stuff, and you say all the words before you even think about pausing for breath. Got it?”

“Yes yes, I understand,” John said irritably. “What are these words I have to say?”

Dean showed him a page in the journal. John muttered them to himself, over and over. Then he wrote them on the notepad carefully. He repeated them under his breath a few times. 

“Think you can remember them?” Dean asked. “Cos you can just take the paper if you—“

“Oh I’m taking the paper, don’t you worry about that,” John scoffed. “I’m just trying to remember them. You lot carry on.”

“That’s it, man,” Dean said, closing the journal and pushing it back inside his jacket. “That’s all you have to do.”

“And if it doesn’t work?” Sherlock asked quietly.

Sam turned around in his seat to watch the road. Dean cleared his throat quietly. “It’ll work,” he said firmly. “But if it doesn’t, then… We’ll think of something else.”

The car was ominously quiet for a good few minutes. Then John took a breath. “Sam,” he asked. “Apart from the stuff we needed, what else did you buy in the Atlantis Bookshop?”

“Uh - goofer dust,” Sam said, twisting as much as he could in his seat again. 

“What’s that used for?” Sherlock asked.

“Lots of things,” Sam said innocently. Sherlock stared at him. Sam’s eyes sloped down at the edges, yet pinched up at the bridge of his nose. The two of them attempted to stare each other out.

“Like what?” Sherlock asked politely.

Sam glanced at the driver, found her oblivious, and looked back at Sherlock. “Well… Stopping things from entering a room, casting spells on people if they tread in it…”

“Stopping what?”

“Hellhounds,” Sam admitted. “Why?”

“Fascinating,” Sherlock breathed, as if to himself. “Has anyone studied this dust?”

“Oh _god_ ,” John moaned. “Don’t say it’s in any way similar to ash. He _likes_ ash. _Really_ likes it. Don’t get him started on the studies he’s done—“

“It’s not ash,” Sam blurted. “Really, it’s not. It’s made of like graveyard dirt and some spices. Really - _not_ ash.”

Sherlock pursed his lips and looked out of the window. Sam looked at Dean. He shook his head at him, so Sam turned and went back to looking out of the front windscreen.

 

ooOoo

 

The car pulled up at Hollyhedge House to the sounds of birdsong. The four men piled out of the car, Sam going straight to the boot and opening it up to empty it of their overnight bags and their ingredients.

“Ah, Major,” Sherlock said. 

Sam closed the boot lid and turned to see Major Morrison coming out of the front door. Her hands laced behind her back, she strode up to the three men standing near-side of the cab.

“Mr Holmes, Mr Watson,” she nodded. She turned to Dean. “Mr Walsh. You made good time.”

Sam crunched through the gravel round the car to Dean, handing him his duffle. Dean took it but kept his attention on Morrison. “Yeah well,” he said. “We need to stow our gear and start prepping the place.”

“I’ll show you to your dorm,” she said. “What do you need after that?”

“You’ve got like a large rec room, right?” Dean asked, as they walked toward the door. Sherlock followed obediently as John and Sam exchanged a look.

“And you’re sure this is going to work?” John asked. “Because if anything happens to an army headquarters—“

“It’ll work,” Sam said confidently. “It’ll work.”

“Famous last words,” John said. But he did follow Sherlock inside.

Sam hefted the canvas bag of ingredients as well as his own duffle. The door swung shut behind him as his longer legs made short work of catching the other four up.

“Power?” Dean asked at the front.

“Usual electric. Regulated and metered,” Morrison was saying. She glanced at him, to her left, a small smile on her lips.

“Wooden floors?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Windows?”

“Double glazed.”

“And the roof still has iron in it, right?”

“Yes. All the framework in this old place has iron in it.”

“Awesome.”

They stopped at the end of the hallway. She turned to face them as she pointed off to her right. “Dorm is that way. Each room takes four. Take as many rooms as you need. Come find me when you’re ready to brief me on what exactly we’re doing tonight,” she said. Dean nodded and took off. 

John stopped in front of her. “Thanks for letting us in.”

“Anything to get this done,” she said.

Sam passed them, nodding his thanks, as he went after his brother. Sherlock was already weaving round them and heading after the Winchesters.

“Tell me,” Major Morrison said, as the other three moved out of earshot, “do you trust Mr Walsh - or Mr Livgren?”

John frowned. “With my life.”

“You’ve had cause to put your life in their hands?”

“Once - last year. They came through,” he nodded. “Why are you asking?”

“I called RAF Molesworth. They don’t have a Walsh or Livgren on file. In fact, there _are_ no officers called Walsh or Livgren anywhere in the _same_ department of the USAF.” She paused. “Do you know where I _have_ heard of them?” she smiled.

John swallowed. “Uhm… no. Can’t say I do.”

“Kansas,” she said. 

“Well they are from—“

“Not the state - the group.”

“Look, Major Morrison—“

“Mr Watson, they were in possession of top level secret passwords that even _I_ hadn’t been cleared for before I checked. That means they either outrank me so highly it’s embarrassing for me, or they’re working on something else for the Americans. Either way, they’re working in favour of this woman’s army. That’s more than this serial killer is doing - so I don’t care who they really are until this assailant is put down and our soldiers are relatively safe. _Then_ we’ll talk about how they knew so much and whether I should be calling them Colonel or Special Agent.”

John wiped his forehead with his fingers. “Right. Look, I should tell you—“

“Please don’t,” she said. “Not until this is dealt with.”

John met her eyes but she stared him out. He nodded, looking at his feet, and she turned and walked off toward her office. John blew out a sigh. Then he turned left and went looking for the dorm rooms.

 


	8. And It's Not the End of the World, Oh No. It's Not Even the End of the Day

Dean put a hand to the thick mattress and blankets of the army cot, pushing experimentally. “Nice,” he smiled, putting his duffle by the wooden leg and plonking himself down on it to the welcome bounce of comfort. “No wonder you British army types just keep on fightin’. Our army bunks _suck_.”

“And how would you know that?” Sherlock asked from across the small room. He was standing with his hands behind his back, watching Sam and Dean choose a bed each. Dean simply gave a satisfied smile.

Sam rolled his eyes even as he dumped his bag on the cot next to him. “What was she, a private?”

“Captain,” Dean said, opening up his duffle and fishing around inside. “So Morrison says she’s got paint cans somewhere. I say we cover this entire place in anti-angel sigils to slow Scaramouche down—“

“Skalmöld,” Sherlock said absently.

“—if she tracks John and tries again,” Dean finished, without missing a beat.

“You do that - I’ll start setting John up with the brand,” Sam said.

John poked his head in through the door. “Uh, Dean?” he said quietly. “Can I have a word?”

Dean got up and went to the door, but John was backing out of the doorway. “What is it?” Dean asked. “We’re gonna start trapping this place up and getting this ritual ready.”

“Yes, about that,” John said. He looked up and down the empty corridor. “Major Morrison knows your names are fakes.”

“She said that?” Dean asked, his eyes narrowing.

“Yes. She said she’d checked and there _are_ no officers with your names - at least, not serving together.”

Dean sniffed, looking at his boots for a moment. “What else?”

“What?”

“What else did she say? Seein’ as she ain’t come in here to arrest us for impersonating officers.”

John paused. Then he checked the corridor again. “She said she wasn’t sure how high your ranks really went, or if you were really high-level intelligence. She’s not even interested until this valkyrie is stopped - which she thinks is a serial killer, by the way. A human one.”

“Well what she don’t know won’t hurt us,” Dean grunted. “When you’re done and you’re off the list, we’re leaving. She can follow up on us later. We’ll be back in the States before she gets through all the red tape to find out we’re not even officers.”

John folded his arms. “I hope so.” He paused. “So what do we do first?”

Dean chucked a thumb at the open door. “Let me get some stuff. Then we need to find Morrison and where this rec room is. That’s where we’ll set you up with the mixture on the floor. You remember those words?”

“Yes,” he said. “Let’s hurry before that valkyrie woman turns up again.”

“I heard _that_.”

 

ooOoo

 

The rec room was amused to see four men and a woman walk in. Major Morrison flipped on the lights at a panel on the wall, bringing much-needed luminescence to an otherwise lonely room. She walked into the centre, looking round at the chairs neatly stacked against the left side, the tables likewise on the right.

“Well? Here we are,” she said, her hands out to indicate the size. 

Sam and Dean went straight to the walls, running their hands over the smooth wooden surface as if looking for something. Sherlock carried a bag to her feet and immediately crouched down to rifle through it. She looked over to see John wandering up behind Sherlock.

“Are you finally going to brief me on what you’re doing?” she asked.

Sherlock didn’t even look up. “The murderer is coming here. We’re going to stop her from taking John, and she’ll leave.”

“What?” she demanded. “You _are_ joking. I want her arrested for murder. You _do_ have evidence that she killed the other soldiers, don’t you?”

“We do,” Sherlock said, snapping to his feet so fast Morrison took a step back. “She left one of her feathers at each scene.”

“Feathers?” Morrison gasped. “Is this a joke?”

“Sherlock,” Dean warned. Sam nudged his elbow, nodding to him before crossing to the other side of the room. He produced a paint can and began to spray large circular squiggles on the wood.

“Hey - you can’t deface government property,” Morrison said.

“Major, really - we’ll clean up after, ok?” Dean said over his shoulder. He was shaking another paint can, squinting at the wall.

She strode over and grabbed his right wrist before he could begin spraying. “Mr Walsh,” she said coldly. “You said you were luring a serial killer here. If there is _anything else_ going on you need to be really clear about what that is. I do not appreciate people making a mess in my house.”

He turned to face her, and she had to admit, it did not take much to make her hand leave his wrist. “Look, it’s better you don’t know everything just yet. It’s complicated.”

“If you don’t explain, Mr Walsh, I’ll have you ejected from Hollyhedge House.”

He ran a hand over his mouth, glancing over to see Sherlock and Sam spraying with advanced pre-occupation. John was crouched by the bag. He pulled a large metal bucket from it and began to pull the plastic lid off carefully. Dean looked down at the spray can in his hand. Then he straightened and looked at Morrison. “Ok,” he said. “You asked for it.” He scrubbed at the side of his jaw in apparent thought. “This serial killer? She did kill the other soldiers, ok? She’s a… she’s a valkyrie. She collected them after she thought they already died in Afghanistan.”

She stared. “If this is some kind of American humour, it really doesn’t translate,” she snapped.

Dean huffed. “Look - in about ten minutes all this will be over. Me and Livgren will gladly clean all the paint off the walls and we’ll all disappear, ok? You’ll never have to see us again - I promise. But for right now, I need you to just do as we ask. Just trust me - you’re doing the right thing here.”

“You want me to blindly follow orders so you can get on with it?” she accused.

He studied her face. “I want _you_ to do what _we_ need you to. Later we’ll explain - if you’re lucky enough _not_ to see what happens.”

Her head tilted. She looked down at the spray can in his hand. “Hurry up,” she said. He turned to the wall and raised the can. Morrison put her hands behind her back and watched as he began to describe a large circle on the wall in red paint. “If I gave you the impression that I never want to see you again… that would be wrong,” she said idly.

Dean paused. His finger came off the pressure nozzle for the can and he began to turn round. 

She sniffed. “Hurry up.”

“Yes ma’am,” he grunted, biting back a smile, as he turned back to the wall.

 

ooOoo

 

John studied the thin layer of dirt in front of him. Neatly swept inside a chalked circle on the wooden floor, it appeared decidedly like a load of road grit that had been mixed with dust. Sam knew better, as he backed up and checked all of it was within the circle.

“Ok,” he nodded to John. “You’re good to go.”

John looked up at him, then back down at the dirt. “And it’s not going to hurt, is it? I mean, I don’t mind too much if it does, but a bit of a warning would be nice.”

“It shouldn’t,” Sam said. “But I really have no idea. Sorry.”

“Thanks,” John said. He looked around, first at Sherlock, then Dean, then Morrison. They were all watching with varying degrees of impatience. He straightened his shoulders and stepped onto the gravel, making it crunch beneath his shoes. He pulled a piece of paper from his left coat pocket and read it quickly. Then he cleared his throat with determination. “Klaatu,” he said firmly, “barada, nikto.”

Sam rolled his eyes and looked at his brother. “Dude,” he huffed. “The _real_ words.”

Dean shrugged. “There ain’t any. You just got to get someone’s attention.”

Sam scowled at him so hard Sherlock pondered the probability of his eyebrows actually leaving his face to fly across the room and beat Dean around the head. Then Sam looked at John. “Do you feel anything?”

John looked at his hands. “Uhm… no.”

Morrison took a step toward him, her hands behind her back. “Mr Watson… Are you sure you trust these people?”

Sherlock went to the wall, putting his ear against it. “John - say something else. Loudly. —Do it now.”

Dean and Sam looked over at Sherlock but John’s face went a shade darker. “For Pete’s sake - what do you want me to say?” he demanded.

Sherlock’s eyes closed as he pressed his ear harder to the wood. “Did you find the milk I left in the fridge last week?”

“Milk! You _are_ joking!” John exploded. He pointed at him, looking at Morrison. “This higher-functioning sociopathic _lunatic_ left a bloody milk jug in the fridge full of brains! Human brains! And when I asked him why, he said he was doing an experiment on how long it takes to congeal! In _milk!_ ”

“Keep going,” Sherlock said under his breath. Sam and Dean exchanged a glance. Dean pulled the angel spike from inside his jacket.

“Oh - but that wasn’t the worst of it!” John shouted. “I went out and bought fresh milk, and what did he do? Emptied it all out because he needed an empty carton for some other weird _shit_ he was concocting!” He turned his attention to Sherlock. “Don’t think about anyone else, Sherlock! Don’t bother _asking_ if I had some other container! No! Just tip it all away and then send Mrs Hudson out for milk because _you_ need the perfect amount _in your bloody tea!_ ”

Morrison put her hands up. “Ok, Mr Watson - calm down.”

“Calm down?” he raged. “You have _no idea_ what it’s like trying to live in the same—. _Aaaaarrrrgh!_ ”

Everyone jumped and stared at him. He jerked and then clamped both hands to his head. 

“It’s working then,” Sherlock commented, as if noting the weather. Then he turned back to the wall.

“What can you hear?” Dean demanded.

Sherlock pressed his ear back to wood. “You’ll see.”

Sam got closer to John, his hand up. “John - it’s ok. It’s working. Whatever the pain is, it’ll fade.”

“I bloody hope so!” he shouted back. Abruptly he froze. He opened his eyes as if the room were too bright. He looked around, making his hands drop to his sides. “It… went away,” he heaved, panting some breath back.

“Is that it?” Dean asked. “Is it done?”

“I think it’s done,” Sam nodded.

Dean glanced at his watch. “Is it Friday yet?”

“Not yet,” Sherlock announced. He stepped back from the wall and straightened his sleeves. “Mr Walsh - get that spike ready.”

Dean flipped it in his hand to make it sit properly in his palm. He backed up toward the wall, watching the windows gingerly. Sam reached into his jacket and produced a sharp, serrated knife with an inscription down the blade.

Morrison assessed the room. She grabbed John’s elbow. “We need to leave. This room is too open.”

“Wait - _listen_ ,” Sherlock said. Everyone froze.

And then they heard metal, chinking against the floor. It got louder, closer - until a blonde head, minus its helmet, poked in through the open door.

“Ah, John Watson,” Skalmöld said with a sunny smile. “I have found you. Please, you _must_ come with me.”

“Who the bloody hell are you?” Morrison demanded. She looked across at Dean. “Is it her? Is she the killer?”

“I do not kill,” Skalmöld announced, her face one of intense disapproval.

John pulled his arm free. “Listen. I can’t go to Valhalla. I’m marked now - or something. Check.”

Skalmöld’s head tilted in befuddlement. “What do you mean?”

Sam cleared his throat. “Uh - we just did a name-check. John’s not on your list any more - he’s going to Fólkvangr. But not yet.”

She walked in, revealing her armour and folded wings. Morrison’s eyes went very wide but she took a calm step back, guiding John with her. The valkyrie seemed more intent upon Sam. “What have you done?” she asked, her smile fading.

“We’ve taken him off your list,” Sam said. “Check him. He’s not in your ‘purview’ any more.”

Skalmöld walked up to Major Morrison. She considered the other woman with slow appreciation. “You are also a fine warrior,” she remarked. “It is a pity you are not on my list.”

“Wha—.” Morrison looked her up and down in disbelief. “What _are_ you?”

“I collect worthy souls for Odin,” she said happily.

“Ye-ah… about that,” Dean said. “We’re pretty sure Odin’s… well, _dead_.”

Skalmöld raised her eyebrows at him. “And why would you believe this?”

Sam and Dean exchanged a glance. Sam cleared his throat. “Uh… He kinda got stabbed. By Lucifer.”

Skalmöld shook her head. “Unless that happened less than two of your days ago, you are mistaken.”

“You saw Odin two days ago?” Sam asked.

“I did. He was… his usual surly self.”

“But—“

“He is timeless. As is my duty.” She looked at John. “May I check your claim?”

John watched her hand come up toward his face. “Wait,” he said quickly. “Last time you did that to my friend, he was out for hours.”

“And your other friend stabbed me,” she said, her face losing some of its pleasantness. She looked over her shoulder at Sherlock. “However, I will put that down to a… misunderstanding. You are all still confused over why I am here, it seems.”

“We know you want to take John,” Dean said slowly. “We also know we don’t want you to. And you can’t - check him.”

Skalmöld turned back to John, raising her hand again. “May I check your claim that you are no longer on my list? I give you my word, John Watson, that I will not transport you anywhere without your consent.”

John studied her face for a long moment. Then he looked at her hand. “Ok. Check me.”

“John!” Sherlock snapped, appalled.

“Sherlock _shut up_ ,” he called. “She’s a soldier. She wouldn’t lie.”

Skalmöld inclined her head in thanks. Then she touched at John’s cheek.

Sam was pretty sure he could almost hear the dust falling to the floor, the silence was so complete. Until Skalmöld removed her hand. She stepped back, surprised.

“It is as you say,” she said, confused. “I do not understand how, but you are no longer to be collected.” She paused, looking around at everyone. “A shame. We would have asked for John Watson’s help, his skills - we would have celebrated him, idolised him, given him everything, until he cemented his worth by fighting for Odin himself.” She paused, her gaze resting with Sam. “I hope you understand what you have denied him. I hope it fills you with as much regret as it does me.”

Sam offered her his finest apologetic smile, complete with a little show of teeth and a crinkly brow. “Sorry. But I just don’t see it that way.”

“We shall agree to disagree,” Skalmöld said, opening her wings long enough to flip them back behind her. They shrank until they literally disappeared. She turned back to look at John. “I will leave you now. But understand me, John Watson - if you should ever wish to enter Valhalla, then you only need to call for me. I shall arrange the list for you, and transport you there myself.”

“Um… thanks?” he hazarded.

Skalmöld smiled. “Peace be with you, John Watson. Until your fighting day. Then you must die well, and for your cause.”

“Yep. Ok. Will do,” he nodded, rather politely.

Skalmöld turned to look at Sherlock. “You I do not need. You are an observer, not a fighter.”

“Today, perhaps,” Sherlock said slyly.

She tilted her head at Sam. “You. And your brother. You two I could use. If you ever wish to enter Valhalla, a case could be made. Call for me.”

Dean blinked in innocent confusion. Sam slapped the back of his hand into his chest with an attempt to bring him back to reality.

Skalmöld was already turning to Morrison. “The invitation also extends to you. You have many battles behind you - but you could have the more glorious war before you. When you know you are ready, call for me.”

“No offence, love,” Morrison said, “but I serve my country and fight when it’s necessary. I don’t look forward to battles _or_ war… but I won’t run from them, either.”

“As you say,” Skalmöld said. She turned for the door. John visibly sagged in relief - as did Sam. 

However, Major Morrison looked over at Dean, her face one of intense accusation. “You’re just going to let her go? After what she did to the other soldiers?”

Dean opened his mouth. He paused. Then he just shrugged, as apologetically as he could.

Morrison stalked up to him, her angry face in his. “You _promised_ me, Mr Walsh. You said you’d take her down. I don’t care if she has wings, a tail or bloody great helicopter blades under that helmet - you said you’d incarcerate her for killing my soldiers!”

“Excuse me,” said Skalmöld cheerfully. Everyone turned to look at her. “Your berating is unnecessary. Your soldiers live - in Valhalla. I dropped them at the gates myself. Odin oversaw their arrival, so that they will live forever, as they deserve to.”

“She seems really sure Odin’s not dead, dude,” Sam said to his brother from the corner of his mouth.

“Are we sure angel blades kill Norse gods?” Dean shrugged.

Morrison was boiling with anger still. “Get bent, whatever you are!” she was shouting at Skalmöld. “My soldiers are _dead_. I had to sign off on their _corpses_. I had to inform their next of kin! Mike Lennery’s sister cried _for three hours_ \- and that was _before_ I left. So don’t you try and make this out to be something noble and worthy - they are _dead_ , so all your smiley lying right now? I could not give any less of a flying fu—“

“Woah, hey,” Dean interrupted, his hands up in surrender. Morrison whirled to look at him. “Uh… crazy as it sounds… I think she’s kinda telling the truth.”

Morrison glared at him. _Glared_.

Sam cleared his throat. “You know… It _is_ her job. She just delivers,” he offered quietly. “Which means… they’re alive - kinda. In Valhalla.”

Morrison stepped back from Dean slowly. She looked around the room. “All of you… You’re all cracked. This woman killed three of my soldiers, and you’re going to let her walk away from us.”

“I do _not_ kill,” Skalmöld said. “It is forbidden.”

Morrison’s angry gaze slapped back to the valkyrie. “Look you—“

“Ok, wait,” Dean said, stepping into her way. Morrison put a hand up to grasp his shoulder, to move him somehow. He grabbed her wrist and simply kept her still. She was about to put her weight into a shove when Dean took a step forward. Caught with her weight unbalanced, she reluctantly held position. A long, _long_ look was bandied between them, encompassing a line being drawn and each of them weighing up what they were prepared to do if that line should be crossed. Suddenly Morrison’s face softened just enough, and her shoulders relaxed in a way that made Dean let go of her arm.

It was then that he realised she was still leaning on him.

Completely unnecessarily.

She cleared her throat and stepped back with absolute composure. Her eyes went to Skalmöld. “If they’re _really_ still alive up there,” she said slowly, “then I want to talk to them.”

Sherlock turned back to the wall. He stepped closer and put his ear to the wood. “That’s… unexpected.”

Skalmöld was nodding at Morrison. “Something can be arranged.”

John suddenly stepped out of the circle and strode up to Sam. He shook his hand as if the act could produce environmentally friendly energy. Sam was clasping a hand to his elbow as they both grinned in relief. Morrison crossed to Skalmöld, beginning a long, complicated question containing phrases like ‘how the bloody hell’ and ‘communicate’.

Sherlock stood back from the wall. “Definitely unexpected,” he mused. And then he turned to the door.

Which was fortunate, as the wooden wall now behind him suddenly splintered inward.

Dean lunged for Morrison. She had already grabbed John and rugby-tackled him to the floor. Her arms covered both their heads. The Winchesters took stock and moved back as they reached for their weapons.

Sherlock looked up at the new figure, now standing where the wall had been.

His eyes narrowed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Title comes from the Beady Eye song ‘The Beat Goes On’.


	9. Them's the Breaks

 

Skalmöld turned on her heel to look at the newcomer. “Odin’s eyes!” she gasped. “Reginleif!”

The woman stood tall. Silver armour coated her limbs like a second skin, the arms bearing a black stripe down the outside from her armoured shoulders to her wrists. Her black tabard hung over her front, swaying as she got her breath back. It stopped just above her knees to reveal black leather boots clad in plates of the same matte silver armour. Her large, off-white wings slicked behind her until they folded themselves into invisibility. She raised her chin, her head mostly covered in a black metal helmet that came down her nose, three dark blonde plaits escaping it at intervals. Her oddly dark eyes swept over everyone in the room. She noted how the two men with weapons watched more closely than the woman and man on the floor. 

Whilst John pushed himself up to sit, Morrison kept at a crouch, studying the new arrival.

Nothing but silence aided everyone’s cautious study. 

It was Sherlock who stepped into the woman’s line of sight and cleared his throat. “Your name is Reginleif?” he asked curtly.

The woman adjusted her gaze down to him. She put a hand out and grabbed his shoulder, pushing him roughly to one side. She closed on Skalmöld. The armour around her boot heels _chink-chink_ ed across the wooden floor.

Skalmöld backed away with definite haste. “Reginleif - why are you here?” Her face had gone pale, her eyes wide and frightened.

“You know why,” the woman hissed - her voice thick, echoing round the room as if it were plugged into its own amp.

Dean blinked. “Bet she has a wicked singing voice.”

Sherlock sidled back into her way, looking up at her with defiance. “Are you here for us or Skalmöld?”

“I do not waste my time on grubs like you,” she snapped.

Her hands went out. They grabbed his coat lapels. The next moment Sherlock was tossed across the room like a rag doll.

“No!” Skalmöld cried. “You mustn’t!”

Reginleif turned her head, her long dark blonde hair swinging in its plaits. Her eyes landed on the other valkyrie. She ignored the sounds of men moving, instead keeping her view on Skalmöld. “Again, you. Every time, you,” she warned. “Skalmöld, this is the last time you will shirk Odin’s orders.”

“Wait!” came a voice. Reginleif turned to her right, spotting a woman in green-grey fatigues. The woman straightened. “I’m not sure what’s happening, but this woman has checked her orders. They’re out of date.”

Reginleif moved so fast the Winchesters didn’t realise she had even twitched. They stared in horror as Reginleif hoisted Morrison off the ground by her throat. She held her three feet from the boards. “Humans!” she snarled. “So irritating.”

Morrison was choking. Her hands gripped at Reginleif’s wrist - but her boots swung backward. As Sam and Dean converged on the taller valkyrie, Morrison’s knees crashed into her chest plate. Reginleif let go. Morrison plummeted to the floor. Dean tossed his angel spike at Sam. He snatched it from the air to turn on Reginleif. Dean shoved his hands under Morrison’s arms and slid her away.

Reginleif turned on Sam. He made to slice at her. She caught his wrist and twisted. There was an horrific _crack_. He gave an angry shout. The spike dropped. She released him in disgust. He collapsed as she turned her back on him. She advanced on Skalmöld.

Until a large dark blur hurtled into her. She was knocked clean off her feet. Her head hit the wooden floor, sending her helmet flying. She grappled with her assailant until she got hold of its neck. Finding it to be another strange man, she simply put her feet into his stomach and flung him off.

Dean sailed through the air as if demon-propelled. He crashed into the far wall and landed in a heap reminiscent of the aftermath of one of his old drinking binges. As Sam squirmed on the floor in pain clutching his right forearm, Morrison dragged herself to her feet. 

Reginleif was already rising, minus her helmet, looking around the room. She looked over at an insensate Sherlock to her left, John crouching over him, apparently trying to rouse him. She swung her head to her right, seeing Dean unconscious at the other wall. Her gaze went down to Sam. He had sat up but was now using his boot heels to slide his backside across the wooden floor to get distance between himself and Reginleif. The new valkyrie turned again to Skalmöld. “Explain,” she spat. “Why do these peasants get in my way?”

Skalmöld’s mouth worked but no sound came out. She backed up a step, then another, as Reginleif drew a long sword. 

Over at the wall, John slapped at Sherlock’s face. He blinked and jumped. The detective looked at the floor under his shoulder. “ _Not_ part of the plan,” he tutted.

John was already skirting the room. He went right around Morrison, who was still nursing her throat. He landed by Dean. A quick shake and the Winchester was struggling to sit up against the wall. John looked up as he heard voices.

“I have watched you, and watched you, and watched you, Skalmöld,” Reginleif said, her voice a low growl. “You turn away soldiers. You defy Odin’s orders. You ruin the discipline and you _stain_ the name of Valhalla. You will not be permitted to do so any longer.”

“I checked John Watson!” Skalmöld said.

“I am tired of your garrison making excuses!” Reginleif shouted. “I am tired of you failing to bring in the warriors we need! I have spent millennia training valkyrie and serving Odin! I started off alone, and if need be, I will carry out Odin’s orders alone again!”

“I do not wish to offend,” Skalmöld cried, her hands out in surrender. “I know how long you have fought by yourself for this. But I have _never_ shirked my orders!”

“Then why am I the only one still doing Odin’s work!”

“I have taken three to Valhalla!” Skalmöld shot back.

“Pathetic substitutes for real warriors,” she hissed. “They were soft and hid behind words they did not know the meaning of - ‘honour’ and ‘duty’. None of them survived my questions!”

“What?” Dead grunted. “You killed ‘em? —Uh, again?”

“What have you done?” Skalmöld gasped. “They were alive when I left them at the doors to Valhalla! You must not harm one of Odin’s soldiers! It is forbidden!”

“Wait - so their bodies were dead but their souls really _were_ in Valhalla?” John asked quietly. He and Morrison shared an angry look.

“They were not soldiers!” Reginleif roared at the other valkyrie. “They were maggots! Unworthy of my presence! All these humans - all these mortals we scour for good blood - they are all _unworthy!_ ”

“They are not simply blood for us to use as we will!” Skalmöld shot back. “They are souls, Reginleif - they are noble creatures who—“

“One more word out of you,” Reginleif spat, “and you will join the fate of these filthy man-worms!”

“Hey!” Sam protested through the pain.

“Screw you, lady!” Dean added, his face a picture of angry umbrage.

Reginleif ignored them. Instead she turned to face Skalmöld. “No more letting the weak into Valhalla. No more leaving the important missions to weak-minded fools like you!” She straightened up. “I will kill John Watson. We will leave for Valhalla. Or so help me, by Odin’s hand I will—“

Skalmöld raised her chin as if in defiance, but it was weak. “We do _not_ kill. You _will not_ harm him.”

“And who would stop me?” Reginleif scoffed.

Skalmöld straightened up. “You will not harm him. You will not harm _any_ human. And John Watson is no longer on the list.”

“There is no list!” Reginleif roared. 

“It is against orders to kill—“

“There are no orders! There is only duty!”

“Hey!” came a new voice. Reginleif began to turn. “There _is_ no duty without orders!”

As Reginleif whirled something struck her wrist. Her fingers left the sword. It clattered to the floor. The next moment something crashed into her knee. She twisted and cried out as she sank to her other knee in pain. Morrison grabbed her head. She rammed it down into her own knee as hard as she could. Reginleif’s face bounced off like a squash ball. She was thrown backwards into the floor.

Morrison staggered back. She snatched up the sword but it was obviously an effort to lift it. She looked at Skalmöld. “I can’t believe I’m saying this to _you_ \- but go! Now!” she urged.

Skalmöld shook her head in disbelief. “She will harm all of you!”

Dean was on his feet. He went to Sam, leaning a steadying hand on his shoulder as he recovered the spike. “Not if we harm her first. Go!” He looked at Sam. “You ok?”

“Do I friggin’ _look_ ok?” Sam managed past the agony in his wrist.

Skalmöld stepped back. She looked behind her, to the door. But then she turned back to them all. “I cannot go if it leaves you in my stead.”

Reginleif’s boot shot out and whacked into the back of Morrison’s knee. She fell but caught herself on her knees by stabbing the sword into the floor. She hung on to keep her balance. Reginleif got to her feet. As Morrison scrambled back to her feet Reginleif leant back. She threw all of her weight into the punch that sent Morrison across the room.

She moved to advance on Skalmöld. She stopped short as if yanked by an invisible string. She turned. Dean was smiling at her; somewhere in her subconscious she recognised it as the kind of smile that wished someone would die in a fire. His hand changed grip on her armour. She looked at it, appalled at his audacity. That was when his other hand came up. He slammed the angel blade right through her breastplate with a satisfying _thunk_. The spike squelched in right up to the hilt. 

Dean paused. He looked up at Reginleif. 

She staggered. She dropped to her knees. He reached out and yanked the spike out hastily, stepping back. She just breathed, her hand on her knee to keep her upright.

Skalmöld came forward. “You must not harm a handmaiden,” she whispered in horror.

Reginleif tipped her head back to see everyone in the room. “Before you had only my hatred,” she growled, clearly in pain. “Now you have my wrath. You - all of you humans - will be wiped clean from this world.” Her wings shot out. They appeared to pull her upward, lifting her off the floor to stand. She took three unsteady steps toward the hole in the wall. Then her wings punted her up and out of the room.

Sam grunted something in pain, still holding onto his right wrist. John and Sherlock looked around from the wall and crossed to him. Dean looked at him, his face a question. Sam noticed and gestured to Morrison with his chin. Dean eyed him for a long moment. Sam scowled at him with twenty-eight years of irritation behind his eyes. Dean turned and hurried over to Morrison. He dropped to his knees and rolled her onto her back to cradle her head. Her eyes creaked open and she found him watching her.

“Under attack—” she croaked.

“Relax, Morrison. She’s gone.”

“Heidi,” she managed, her head lolling back, safe in his hold. “Walsh… what are you doing later?”

He grinned. “You had me at smacking that bitch’s head into your knee.”

“Then…” she whispered, “if you’ll excuse me…”

She passed out.

 

ooOoo

 

The dormitory was a quiet place. Whilst John was wholly consumed with setting Sam’s broken wrist and plying him with painkillers and antibiotics in the soldiers’ infirmary on the other side of the house, Sherlock had taken it upon himself to visit Morrison’s office in the hopes of exploiting her computer for information.

This left Dean sitting on his adopted bunk, cleaning and sharpening an angel blade, as his eyes kept careful watch on Skalmöld and Morrison. The Major was flat out unconscious on the bed beyond the valkyrie, and appeared quite comfortable on her back. Skalmöld was sitting on the bed opposite Dean’s, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes on his hands at work. She never blinked, never paused in her chasing of his movements. 

Dean cleared his throat, letting the angel spike and rag fall to his leg. “So… this is weird.”

“Agreed,” Skalmöld said quietly. “I… have never done this.”

“I’m still not sure whether we should be tying you up as the enemy or letting you bunk in with us as an ally,” he grunted. “Based on what we saw? I think we’re all going with ally.”

She raised her eyes to him. “That would be wise.”

“Hey - you don’t harm humans, remember?”

She sighed. “I do not. I never have. I merely expressed my relief that you accept I am also against Reginleif.”

“Like I said: this is weird.”

She nodded. “I have never been targeted by my superior before.”

Dean pursed his lips in agreement. “Still can’t believe you can’t just zap Sam’s wrist better.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s broken - like actually snapped like a twig. You’re some part angel, right? Why can’t you just Cas his bones back together?”

Skalmöld’s brow furrowed in thought. “I do not understand that reference.”

“Yeah, you’re part angel alright,” Dean gruffed under his breath, looking back at the blade in his hand.

“I regret not being able to help your brother,” she said. “He has been fair with me in all matters.”

“That’s kinda his thing.” He put the spike and rag down next to him, leaning his elbows on his knees and looking at the valkyrie. “So this thing with you and John is over, right? You’re not trying to take him any more?”

“He is no longer on the list. To take him now would be against our orders.”

“And you always follow orders?”

“It is my purpose,” she said, her voice muted. “It is why I took the other soldiers to Valhalla - the ones who are now dead. That is down to me. Had I not collected them, had I not taken them to Valhalla where I thought they would be heroes, honoured warriors… they would still be here. They would still be your kind of ‘alive’.” She paused. “It is my fault they are dead and beyond my help. And yet…”

“You had your orders?”

“I did.”

Dean sniffed, looking at his feet. “Look, I get it,” he said to his boots. “You’ve never been on the outs with your superior before. You’ve never heard of these collected people being killed instead of being let in to what you think is the ultimate… heaven. You’re confused. And you’re in danger. Vegas money says _that’s_ never happened before.”

“Veygass munnie?” she asked, her head tilting to one side in curiosity.

“It means I’m pretty sure,” he said, letting a small smile pull at the side of his mouth. He looked at her. “So where do we stand? What happens now?”

“I do not understand the question.”

“ _You’re_ not trying to take John any more. But what happens when your boss comes back? Is she going to kill you, and then take John?”

Skalmöld appraised him with sadness. “That appears to be her plan.”

“What if we killed her first? What would you do?”

“Killed her?” she asked, shocked. “You cannot kill a valkyrie.”

“But she’s going to kill _you_ ,” he said clearly.

“But…” Skalmöld sighed, looking at her clasped hands. “This is… painful. She knows that to kill a valkyrie… It is not done, unless a valkyrie has defied Odin himself. It is also forbidden to harm Odin’s soldiers - but that she _has_ done. I am at a loss to understand why she is doing these things, why she is acting counter to our orders, our _order_.”

“Ye-ah… about that,” Dean said. “She seems a little… cracked.”

“Cracked? She is not damaged.”

“Oh I think she’s all the way damaged,” he snorted. “Was she always like this? Why didn’t she believe you when you said you’d checked John? Why is she now hell-bent on killing him?”

“She is… different,” Skalmöld said. “She always has been. She is the first valkyrie on her own, doing Odin’s work and introducing new handmaidens to the cause. She has been the one over us for… millennia. She believes it is every soldier’s _duty_ to go to Valhalla and fight for Odin in the coming end, not their right or privilege. As for why she now wants John Watson dead… I cannot fathom.” She paused. “It does appear that she is… damaged.” 

“Sounds like she’s spent too long carrying out orders. Maybe it’s driven her a little nuts. Sure seems that way.”

“Nuts? The kind from trees?”

Dean paused, then smiled at her. “No. Like… crazy. La-la. Not thinking like a sane person.”

Skalmöld ‘oh’ed to herself, looking at his hands. “You and your friends. You fought for me, you attempted to stop her from harming me. I am… conflicted.”

“Never had humans on your side before?” he asked wryly.

“I have never had _anyone_ on my side before.”

“Not the other valkyries?”

“We are… separate. We work apart,” she said quietly. “I do not… interact with anyone. Except my superior, who must watch me at appointed moments to ensure I am carrying out my duty correctly. —And the souls I collect. But even when I return with them to Valhalla, I am not allowed in the hall itself. I deliver them to the outside - and hopefully be thanked by Odin himself - and then I must leave them. They enter without me.”

“Well that sucks out loud,” Dean tutted in disgust. “So this is the first conversation longer than three words you’ve had in… how long?”

“A millennia,” she shrugged innocently. “Or two.”

Dean’s eyes fired themselves at his fringe in surprise. He watched the woman reach up and take off her helmet, holding it in her hands with care. “Look…” he began. “Uh… When she comes back, we’re going to kill her. You can carry on working for Odin.”

“But once Reginleif is dead…” She sighed. “I do not how to feel about the idea that she must die. I am uncomfortable with her actions this day. And I am grateful you do not blame me. After all, I did collect three soldiers from this… place. From John Watson’s life.”

Dean scratched the side of his face in thought. “And that was… something. I mean… John was pretty cut up about it. Now I don’t want to just write it off, like you were just following orders, but… we weren’t there. I get the feeling that if we were there, we would have talked you out of it.”

“Or at least stabbed me in the wing long enough to take them off my list,” she said politely.

Dean couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah - sorry about that.”

“I would say that we have caused even heartache to each other. But I know that is not true.” 

Dean sighed. “You were doing your job - until you found it wasn’t your job any more. And in a strange way, you didn’t really kill ‘em. I mean, the bodies were dead and all, but… if they really had a chance to go to Valhalla and fight like immortals? Well. Maybe it wasn’t a death as such. Just a… promotion.”

“Promotion?”

“Yeah, I mean… Me and my brother? We do this for a living - kill monsters, that is. People have tried to use us as weapons before. That didn’t end well,” he said, looking at his hands. “I fight every day anyway - what difference does it make if I’m doing it for Odin or someone else? But if we were immortal, or even like bullet-proof - I’d feel a lot better about doing this every day.”

She smiled. “They you miss the truth of immortality.”

“Yeah, maybe.” He got up, picking up the spike and rag. “When she comes back, you don’t have to do anything. You don’t have to fight, you don’t have to help, you don’t have to be the one to kill her. We’ll do that.”

Her face turned thoughtful as she watched him pack the spike into the open duffle on the cot. “Do you always protect people you feel have been wronged?”

He gave her a very professional half-smile. “I’m just killing a monster. It’s my job.”

“Of course,” she said quietly. Her head tilted before she looked at her hands. Her eyes went back up to find his. “You would make a good valkyrie.”

“Aren’t they all women?” he asked, surprised.

“They are. But only because Odin feels that men are too emotional to think clearly.”

“ _Men_ are too emotional?”

“Crimes of passion, the rage of battle, the bloodlust of a fight, the euphoria of victory - I have seen this with my own eyes.”

Dean’s head canted to one side as his gaze went to the ceiling. “It _does_ sound like a hockey game. And that’s just the spectators.”

Skalmöld appeared to process this. Then she appraised him again. “Well. You and your brother would be very suitable.”

“No offence, but I don’t think we’ll be applying for Reginleif’s position.”

Skalmöld smiled. “That would not be wise.” 

 

ooOoo

 

Sam sat on the examination bed in the infirmary, watching John stand back from the new cast on his wrist.

“There,” John said, reaching for a towel and drying off his hands. “That should do it. It’ll need to be on for about four to six weeks. You’re lucky it was just a nasty fracture and not a complete break.”

Sam looked at his wrist, wiggling the fingers of the hand. “Thanks, man. Really.”

“No trouble. I actually feel quite guilty.” John put the towel down. “Don’t lean it on anything for about forty-eight hours. The plaster needs times to properly dry out.”

“Yeah… I’ve been here before.” Sam looked at him. “But thanks.”

“Painkillers enough for you? I can find some—“

“I’ll be ok,” Sam said quietly. He looked at the cast, turning it this way and that. “I’m more worried about who that new valkyrie was.”

John sighed, standing back so Sam could slide off the bed. “I have to say… I feel sorry for Skalmöld. I mean, it’s not the first time I’ve seen a commanding officer misinterpret a situation and blame the wrong person.”

Sam frowned. “Really?”

John shrugged. “The military tries to be a very black-and-white place. If something doesn’t fit, then… Well. These days rank and file have to produce reports on the actual figures of black or white. There _is_ no grey column.”

“And after what she did to your friends?”

John sighed. “You know, it’s quite strange. I don’t feel… angry. I feel like she did her job, and believed she was following the right orders. And then, after she’s completed what she was supposed to, _exactly_ as she was supposed to, someone comes along and breaks it. I’m a little angry about that. And this new valkyrie.” He paused. “I’m not saying I’m sure this Valhalla really exists. But if it did… then I think my three friends would have fitted right in.” He looked at his feet. “It’s bloody insane, all this. But… I’d be proud if my friends got in there.”

Sam frowned, considering the cast on his wrist for a long moment. “So you’re not angry with Skalmöld?”

“I’m worried I misjudged her,” John said. He looked up bravely, finding Sam’s eyes. “I’m ashamed to think we all did.”

Sam nodded uneasily. “But this new woman… She didn’t even check. She didn’t even _care_.”

John leant on the bed with his hand, looking up at Sam. “She was a little harsh. And acting like a crazy _human_. No wonder Skalmöld was afraid of her. Maybe this superior one has a fanatical devotion to black or white.”

“True.” Sam picked up his jacket. “Better go find my brother. He’s probably interrogating Skalmöld to within an inch of her life.”

 

ooOoo

 

John and Sam wandered into the dormitory to find three people sat on the edges of Dean’s adopted bed, a haphazard pile of playing cards in the centre of them. Major Morrison seemed much more awake as she studied her cards with furious concentration. Skalmöld was to her left, at the foot of Dean’s bed, similarly alert and considering her hand. Dean was across from Morrison, his denim shirt off and on the pillow. His black t-shirt was enjoying the lack of heavy layers, it seemed.

“Wow. Don’t wear yourself out, Dean,” Sam said overly pleasantly.

“Hey shut up,” Dean replied, not even looking away from the cards in his hands.

Morrison noticed Sam’s plaster cast. “Are you ok?”

“Uh, yeah, I will be,” he said. “John kinda fixed things.”

Skalmöld put her cards on the bed and got up. She turned to Sam. “I apologise for this,” she said sadly. “I did not know she would come here.”

“Well, uhm… ok,” Sam said, his best apologetic half-smile trying to bridge the gap between understanding and believing.

“Ha!” Dean cried ebulliently, slapping a playing card down on the pile on the bed covers. He pointed at Morrison in blatant accusation. “Your turn. I am so lookin’ forward to this.”

Her face displayed not a single muscle twitch as she slid one card from her hand and placed it on top of Dean’s, on the pile. “Read it and weep, mate.”

He tutted out loud, staring at the card in outrage. “You are _kidding_ me.”

She grinned, sliding her cards closed in her hand. “Come on. You know what happens next.”

Dean glared at her until she let her eyebrow raise in amusement. He heaved a sigh as if it were all unjust, then put his cards to the blanket by his knee. His hands went to the hem of his t-shirt and he began to pull it up.

“Woah woah woah,” Sam protested, his good hand out. “Are you playing strip poker? _Now?_ ”

“What? _No_ ,” Dean scoffed, offended. He let go of the t-shirt.

Sam glared at him - just glared.

“It woulda taken too long to teach Scaramouche poker,” Dean shrugged.

Sam’s eyebrows rammed down and his jaw stuck out at such an angle that Skalmöld blinked in apprehension.

John simply patted the altitudinous Winchester’s upper arm and went round him, going to the other bed and sitting. “So… what do we do now?”

Dean collected up the cards, putting them together and sliding them all straight with his thumbs. “We find a way to torch that other valkyrie.”

“And playing cards helped you with that, did it?” Sam accused. He went over and took the cards from Dean’s hand, dropping them to the side table deliberately.

Dean held up a palm, listening. The others waited, but Sam’s eyebrows were in danger of completely blocking out his eyes as he turned just a shade more annoyed. “Wait for it,” Dean said. “Wait for it…”

They heard a rapid clicking sound from outside the door. The next moment Sherlock had burst in. He stared around at everyone before he found Skalmöld. “I need you,” he said curtly. “Come with me.”

“How can I be of assistance?” she asked, already moving toward him.

“I think I’ve found a way to end this,” he said. “I need more of your input.”

Sherlock and Skalmöld disappeared from the room, Morrison following quickly. Sam looked at John, surprised. “ _More_ of her input?”

“What do you think we were sittin’ here waiting for, Sammy?” Dean said. “The bloodhound was doing your research for you.” He shook his head in mock sadness. “I swear, sometimes it’s like he’s forgotten we do this every week.”

Sam’s head tilted left and right in discomfort as he made his anger die down. “Right. So… Sherlock’s found a way to stop the other valkyrie?”

“Why don’t we go ask him,” Dean said pleasantly. He got up, picking up his shirt from the pillow. John got to his feet. 

Sam cleared his throat. “Dude - sorry,” he managed.

“Don’t sweat it,” Dean smiled, nudging his arm. “Heidi owes me a rematch anyway.”

John walked out as Sam looked at his brother, but Dean was more intent on catching John up.

“Wait - who’s Heidi?” Sam asked, even as he followed.

 

 


	10. Possibly the Longest Thursday in History

 

Sherlock went straight back to the computer in Morrison’s office. He threw himself into the chair as Skalmöld and Morrison caught him up. “Here,” he said, turning the monitor for them to see.

John, Sam and Dean arrived through the door too, leading Sherlock to swivel the monitor right round on its base to look out at the room. Everyone crowded round, peering at the screen.

“So… this Reginleif is some kind of… superior valkyrie,” John mused as his eyes danced along the lines of text.

“She is above the rest of us. She is _the_ superior valkyrie,” Skalmöld said from behind them. Of them all, only she appeared to have no interest in the screen.

“Great. Does it say how to kill her?” Dean asked even as he read.

Sam pushed him to one side to see better. He leant over to see the text. “Ashishibelde,” he read out.

“Bless you,” Dean said off-hand.

Sam’s face scrunched up in abrupt annoyance but then it smoothed out again. “It’s a kind of blade.”

“Oh,” Dean managed. He looked up to notice Morrison smiling at him. It took him about a quarter of a nano-second to let a sly, answering smile cover his own face.

Sam straightened up, directly in Dean’s line of sight. “We just need a substantial blade of our own and then we can put something together that can kill her. We’d better hurry.”

John backed up, looking around. “Where do we get a giant knife?” he scoffed. “I don’t suppose anyone here has anything that’ll do the job? —Where’s the kitchen?”

“Wait,” Morrison said. She turned and strode from the room.

Sherlock got to his feet. “Sam - tell us what you need to make this work.”

“We’ll need… some tree root…” He bent closer to the screen to read again. “Pepper. Sulphur. Dust from a blacksmith’s anvil. Sage.”

“Where are we going to find all that?” John sighed.

Dean bent over and squinted at the type. “It says it has to be moist, like a pulp. How do we make it wet?”

Sherlock elbowed his way in front, and everyone else stood back. “Well according to this, we need ‘fluid of nature, encompassing all that a person is and was’.”

“I don’t get it,” Sam said, attempting to fold his arms until the cast made it impossible. His hands dropped again.

“Urine,” Sherlock announced, snapping upright. He turned on them. “Obviously.”

“Dude,” Dean said, his face one of clear distaste. He looked at Sam. “Seriously?”

Sam’s head tilted as he thought it over. “Sounds like it’d tick all the boxes.”

“Are you sure?” John pressed. “I’d hate to have to get someone to donate some and then have it not work. Or worse, have to _touch_ it.”

Sam’s mouth opened but Morrison appeared through the door - carrying a large sword in two hands. “This do you?” she asked. “That other valkyrie dropped it.”

Sherlock clapped his hands together and rubbed violently, grinning from ear to ear. “Major, you _are_ a singularly useful individual!”

“Right. Because I live for your validation,” she said with ultimate sarcasm. Dean grinned at her until she noticed him doing it. Then he looked at his feet. Sherlock, oblivious, took the sword from her, looking along its blade and then scrutinising the hilt.

John looked at the Winchesters in turn. “Any idea how we get those ingredients?”

“If we divided our efforts the search would be faster,” Skalmöld said.

“Agreed,” Morrison nodded. “What are we looking for?”

Sam reached over her desk and picked up a notepad and a pen. “So… who’s going to the kitchen?” he asked. “We’ll need sage and pepper.” He held the pad awkwardly in the fingers of his left hand and began to scribble down notes.

John put his hand out. “I’ll go.”

“I shall help,” Skalmöld said.

“Any particular kind of pepper?” John asked with a whimsical smile.

Sam ripped the page off and handed it to him. “It’s all there.”

“Right.” John tipped two fingers to his forehead and left the room. Skalmöld nodded to Sam before she too aimed for the soldiers’ mess. 

“Major - do we have anything that would pass for dust from a blacksmith’s anvil?” Sam asked.

“There’s… Wait.” She thought for a moment. “We have an armoury - there must be weapons-grade filings in there; we use it for target practice and ballistics checks.”

“Ok - can you collect as much as you can find? Bring it back here?” he asked.

“On it.” She turned and left the room.

“Where do we get sulphur?” Sherlock asked.

Dean folded his arms. “There’s never a demon around when you need one. We should get one on a leash, like that chick and her zombies from ‘Walking Dead’.”

“That’s just asking for trouble,” Sam tutted. “How about…”

“Gunpowder,” Sherlock interrupted. “It contains sulphur. As well as charcoal and a nitrate - usually potassium nitrate.”

Sam and Dean looked at each other. “I’ll go to the armoury,” Dean shrugged. “How many bullets or shells are we gonna need?”

“A lot,” Sam warned. “Be quick.”

Dean waved a hand in negation. “While I’m doing that, Sherlock can get the tree root, right?”

“I’ll need a spade,” Sherlock mused.

Dean gestured to the far wall with his head. “Plenty of trees out back - but we’re losing light.”

“Then I’m on my way,” the consulting detective said. He disappeared from the room just as Dean turned on his brother.

Sam frowned. “What?”

Dean was already smirking. “So… we got the sulphur, and the anvil dust and the herbs. We just need one more thing.”

“What?” Sam said, going back to the screen.

“You gotta pee in a jar, Sammy.”

Sam straightened and his lungs filled to capacity. The very molecules in the air sensed the impending disturbance and clenched together in horror, in the knowledge that they were about to be buffeted, bullied and broken by the ultimate in oncoming storms: Sam huffed.

Dean chuckled, reaching out and slapping at Sam’s elbow. “Better get to it. We got work to do.” He turned and walked out. Sam swore he could hear a snigger as his brother turned left and went down the corridor toward the armoury.

 

ooOoo

 

Morrison crouched and dusted off her hands, looking rather critically at the mess of black and grey dust glinting in the overhead lights. She picked up the corners of the cloth, shaking the dust into the centre, as she heard someone else enter the room. She looked over her shoulder. “Mister Walsh,” she said with a smile.

Dean looked around the room, spotting the large lockers on the opposite wall. “Yeah - about that,” he said, going to the storage containers and attempting to open the first one. “That’s not actually my name.” The door would not budge.

“I know,” she said, leaving the metal filings on the cloth and walking over to him. “Next you’re going to tell me you’re not even in the army, US or otherwise.”

“Actually… that wasn’t what I gonna say.”

She produced a large metal ring from the thigh pocket on her combats and began to sift through the keys thereon. “Oh come on.”

“Honest. I was kinda hoping me and Mister Livgren would be out of here before you find out who we really are.”

Morrison spared him an amused glance before slotting a key into the lock of the nearest door, turning it. “Skalmöld called him your brother. Is he?”

“Yep.”

“And how does she know that?”

“Valkyrie hoodoo,” Dean said flatly.

Morrison paused to look at him. “Really?”

“I have no idea,” he shrugged.

She grinned and went back to the locker. She pulled the door open. “What do I call you?”

“Dean. My brother’s Sam.”

She looked the shelves of the locker up and down. “What do you need from here anyway?”

“Shells,” he said. “Bullets will do. We need the sulphur.”

“Then… hang on.” She turned with a large rack of shells in her hands. “Hold this.”

Dean took it from her and she opened the next locker, rifling through the contents. She turned with two sets of pliers in her hand. Closing the locker, she indicated the workbench a few yards away.

He carried the rack over as she locked the containers and stowed her keys. She went over and placed a pair of pliers in front of him before she went for her square of cloth on the floorboards. She retrieved it and set it down on the workbench carefully.

“What did you get?” Dean asked.

She picked up the first shell, gripping her pliers firmly to bite into the head of the shell. She began to twist it loose. “Metal filings from gun barrels. It’s weapons-grade filings. That should do for blacksmith dust, right?”

“Should do,” he nodded. He picked up a shell and his pliers, similarly beheading it. He set it down again to find a few rags on the counter. He spread one out and then picked up his shell and tipped the powdery contents into the middle. She did likewise to her cloth, stealing a glance at him every so often.

He paused in his work and waited, and suddenly she looked at him again. “Ok, what?” he asked.

“Nothing.” She went back to work. “Other than… That woman - Skalmöld. She didn’t kill any soldiers at all, did she?”

Dean watched her. “No. But this other valkyrie did.”

“You’re taking all this in your stride,” she mused. “It’s taken me all afternoon to accept that we have two valkyrie on the loose, and one of them is _helping_ us.”

“It’s Thursday,” he shrugged.

She grinned, sparing him a glance before she concentrated on her hands again. “You’ve done this before,” she said. “You and… your brother.”

“A few times.”

She looked up, but he wasn’t smiling. Her attention went back to the shell in her hand. “You don’t enjoy it,” she said. “But you can’t leave it to someone else.”

He paused, about to look at her. But something stopped his gaze from getting closer than her hands on her work. He cleared his throat. “Sounds like something you’d know a little about.”

“Well, you know,” she said softly, as if to herself. “To start with it’s exciting, it’s cool, it’s your calling. You think you’re made for the career - for the life - because you’re young and indestructible. But then… people around you start dying. You think you can handle it, because it’s what you signed up for. I mean, no-one joins the army and thinks they won’t get shot at.” She paused. Dean’s hands halted and he watched her. She kept her full concentration on the shell and pliers. “A certain percentage of people on the front lines - they’re going to die. And you know that. You accept that bad things happen and sooner or later it’ll be to someone you don’t think deserves it.” Her hands didn’t move.

“Until you realise it doesn’t matter who deserves it or not - it just happens and you’ve got to deal with it.”

“Because no-one else will,” she said. She looked at him suddenly. Her blue eyes latched onto his as if he were the last lifeboat on the Titanic. “I got into this because of my family - now I can’t imagine any other life. But it’s not everything I am. And yet… I wouldn’t change it. For anything.”

“It’s just you, right? By yourself?”

“We don’t all have brothers, Dean,” she said with a tiny shrug, her eyes going back to the shell in her hands. “But I have my soldiers, my men and women.”

“Yet you’re a Major,” he said. “There’s a line they can’t cross. You’re always the superior officer - never a friend.”

“It’s what I signed up for.” She yanked the head off the shell a little harshly.

“Heidi,” he said quietly. She appeared to ignore him. He put down his pliers. “Heidi, I get it. Yeah, I’ve got Sam to look out for. Sometimes he even looks out for me,” he said, attempting a teasing smile. “But when you’ve got nothing but the life… that kinda sucks.”

“Do you want to get this gunpowder ready or do you want to talk about feelings?” she asked tonelessly.

He picked up his pliers. “Gunpowder.”

“Good,” she said firmly. She tipped up the shell in her hand, the powder avalanching out and onto the cloth. Dean watched it pour on the small heap she had already amassed. “Because the sooner this whole situation is sorted, the sooner you and I can have that reckless, slightly self-destructive sex your eyes have been promising me since this morning.”

He stared at her profile for a whole three seconds. Then he collected himself. “Yes ma’am,” he nodded, going back to his shell and screwing the head off with a definite twist.

 

ooOoo

 

Sam set the jam jar on the desk in Morrison’s office, the yellowish liquid inside swishing round as if taunting its ex-owner. He heard boots and looked up to see Dean and the Major come into the room.

Dean spotted the urine sample on the table and a cheeky grin came out to play. “You did it. Knew you had it in you, Sam.”

His brother rolled his eyes before he looked at Morrison. “How did you two get all that powder together without punching him?” he asked politely.

“I’ll hurt him later,” she said dismissively. “Valkyrie first.”

Dean opened his mouth but John and Skalmöld appeared from the corridor. “We bring spices,” she said cheerfully, indicating the bag in John’s hand. He put it on the desk next to the jar, as Morrison set down the two bundles of cloth. They stood back and considered the line of ingredients.

“Don’t we need a tree?” Dean asked.

“Tree _root_ ,” Sam corrected. “Sherlock’s on it.”

Morrison looked at her watch. “It’s already dark. He’ll need help.” She went to the cupboard at the far end of her office, taking a large black torch from the bookcase. “Sam, do you know how to mix all that stuff together?”

“Uh - yeah,” he said, looking at his brother with uncertainty. ‘ _Sam?_ ’ he mouthed at him.

“Dude, she knows. It’s cool,” Dean said.

“Right, well,” she said. “I suggest Sam sorts out how to put all these things together whilst we go make sure Sherlock is actually digging up a tree root, and not being ripped to shreds by a valkyrie.” She paused. “Which is the weirdest thing I’ve ever said.”

“I have days like that all the time,” Dean sniffed, turning for the door.

“Dean,” she called.

He turned and she picked up another torch, tossing it under-arm across the room. He snatched it from the air and gestured to the door. “Anyone else coming?”

“Sam’s only got one good hand,” John said. “I’ll stay and help.”

Dean looked at Skalmöld. “Scaramouche?” he prompted.

“I will help John and Sam,” she said. “Veygass munnie says two warriors are enough to keep Sherlock safe.”

Dean grinned and then waved a hand out for Morrison to leave before him. She tested her torch as she walked past the others, Dean hot on her heels.

Skalmöld glanced at the two men as she unscrewed the lid on the jar of Sam’s sample of ‘fluid of nature’. “So,” she said, dipping her finger straight into the contents and stirring it round as if testing the viscosity, “how do we mix these items? What consistency do we need? That of congealed blood, or fresh?”

The men looked at each other. Sam took the jar from her gently, offering a polite smile as he put it back on the table.

“Please don’t touch me with that hand,” John said quietly.

Skalmöld peered at her wet finger. Sam cleared his throat. “Tell you what,” he said hastily, “why don’t you find us a large mixing bowl?”

“I’ll go,” John blurted. He turned and walked out.

Skalmöld watched him leave, then turned and smiled at Sam. 

He looked over at the computer monitor hastily, turning it to so they could both see it. “We need all the powders together first.”

“Simple,” Skalmöld said, reaching for the cloths.

 

ooOoo

 

Morrison clicked on her torch, walking across the large lawn at the back of Hollyhedge House. She heard boots in the grass behind her and then another beam of light followed hers. “Sounds like he’s over there,” she said, waving the torch round to her right.

Dean caught her up, his swathe of white crossing hers against the grass. “If this valkyrie does turn up again,” he said, “you know you can’t kill her without this charmed sword we’re making, right?”

“Do you?” she countered. “I saw her throw you across the room. Next time learn to break a hold. Or duck.”

“Y’know, I’ve done this kind of thing before, in case you forgot,” he said, somewhat stiffly. 

She smiled to herself in the evening gloom. “Had it occurred to you that I said that not because I was judging you, but because I don’t want you to be hurt?”

“Oh,” Dean said, mostly to himself.

“When you’re quite done,” came a new voice, “I would really appreciate a little help with this obstreperous root.”

They swung their lights round to find Sherlock with his feet and knees in a slender hole. Both hands were apparently stuck between his sunken feet. They appeared to be yanking at something with most, if not all of, his strength.

Morrison crossed to him quickly. “Sherlock.”

“Light, please, Major,” he said, tugging still at something in the hole. Morrison shone the torch down at his hands, but Dean waved him up.

“Come on, my turn,” he said impatiently. “You dug it up, now fresh arms can rip it out.”

“I’ve already cut it mostly through,” Sherlock said with some indignation.

“Then you loosened it for me. Thanks,” Dean said, clapping a hand to his shoulder.

Sherlock reluctantly let go of the root, scrambling up and out of the tiny pit. Dean looked around, as if getting his bearings. Then he pulled up his t-shirt and shirt to unbuckle his belt.

“Really?” Morrison asked.

Dean smiled at her. “It grips better.”

“Ah yes,” Sherlock said as he wiped his hands together. “He’s quite right.”

Dean pulled the belt out of his jeans and knelt down to put a single boot in the hole. He grunted and struggled as he persuaded the leather item to wrap round the exposed root. Buckling it back up in a way that almost ripped the eyelet a new one, he sat back on the edge of the bank to put both boots to the edge. He grasped the end of the belt firmly, his hands wrapping round the end, forcing him to lean between his knees.

“Here we go.” He took a deep breath.

Morrison’s head tilted and her eyes shifted to one side, as Sherlock looked around the dark lawn. As Dean strained with all the effort he could muster, the other two looked up - and abruptly became very still.

“Nearly - got - it!” Dean spluttered. He adjusted his grip and heaved again.

“Do it faster,” Sherlock snapped. “We don’t have all night!”

“No - shit - Sherlock,” Dean managed.

“No really,” Morrison said. “Incoming!”

Dean was aware of a whoosh of air and a harsh war-cry. Sherlock snatched up the heavy spade. He brandished it over his shoulder as if waiting to strike. Morrison grabbed Dean’s jacket in a pull.

“Nearly - got it!” he growled.

“Leave it - come on!” she cried.

He heaved again. The root snapped out and flew up out of the hole. Dean went over on his back. Morrison was thrown back onto the grass.

There was a loud _dong!_ as Sherlock twirled round so fast he nearly screwed himself into the lawn. Dean looked up. 

A circle of torch-light was framing a tall, imposing valkyrie standing ten feet from them. She had one hand firmly clutching her left temple. “What in the actual Hel?” she demanded angrily. She looked at Sherlock and his spade. “You dare hit me with a farm implement!”

Sherlock straightened up as tall as he could. “Dean. Major,” he said calmly. “Take that root to Sam. Go _now_.” 

 


	11. All For One

 

Morrison ran across the grass. One hand was clutching the torch. The other was gripping the material of Dean’s jacket sleeve as if its life depended on it.

“Woah - we can’t leave him!” Dean protested from behind her.

“We get that root to your brother and then kill her!” she cried.

There was an angry shout and a _dong!_ sound so loud it reverberated in the darkness. More shouts were exchanged behind them.

Dean yanked his arm free but then overtook Morrison in their mad dash back to the barracks. They leapt through the giant hole in the wall caused by Reginleif’s earlier arrival and skidded round the wooden corridors to get back to her office. He burst in through the open door. John and Skalmöld jumped in their skins as he pounded to a stop so close to the table that he knew he was going to spend the rest of his days defending his view that he never actually touched it as such. Morrison flew into the room. Her boots squeaked on the floor as she pulled up short. 

“Did you get it? The root?” Sam asked.

Dean yanked the belt from it and held it out to him as he sucked in some breath. “Hurry - Rainin’ Leaf is out there with Sherlock.”

“Reginleif!” Skalmöld gasped. She pushed past them as politely as possible and went back toward the training room with the hole in the wall. Dean twisted to try to grab her to a stop but she was gone. 

Morrison pushed Dean toward Sam. “You three get that sword ready. We’ll slow Reginleif down.”

“What? No!” Sam cried - but she was already out of the door. He heard a noise and looked round to see John prising open the drawers on Major Morrison’s desk. “What are _you_ doing?”

John rifled through until he came up with a handgun. He pulled out the magazine, checked it was loaded, and then snapped it shut. He yanked on the slide and looked at Sam. “A little gunpowder might slow this valkyrie down. You two make the magic sword work.” He paused. “Is _that_ weirder than anything you’ve ever said?” he asked Dean.

“Not by a long shot,” he said as he buckled his belt back through his jeans. “Go.”

John turned and raced out, to leave Sam and Dean looking at each other.

“Well?” Dean demanded. “Let’s mix all this crap!”

“Technically,” Sam said as he grabbed the jam jar and unscrewed the lid, “it’s pee.”

 

ooOoo

 

Morrison and Skalmöld skidded in through the doorway to see Sherlock fly through the air in a graceful barrel roll. He collided with the far wall and bounced off to tumble to the wooden boards. Reginleif stepped into the room through the hole in the wall.

While Skalmöld moved into her path, Morrison crouched and grabbed Sherlock. She rolled him over and slapped at his face.

“Spade!” he spluttered. He sat up so fast she nearly fell back on her heels. His hand went out and snatched up the wooden handle to the farming tool lying next to him, but the shaft had splintered. The metal shovel end was at a ninety degree angle, looking rather put out at its ill fortune. Sherlock simply gripped the end and wrenched it free. “Insufficient stopping power,” he tutted in disgust. “I need something bigger.” Morrison rolled her eyes and helped him up.

John came speeding through the doorway with the gun pointing at the floor. “Skalmöld!” he cried.

The valkyrie was grappling with the more imposing woman. Reginleif had her hand round Skalmöld’s throat in a way that suggested she was about to snap something. 

John rushed around and aimed the Sig Sauer at Reginleif’s head. “Excuse me!” he called angrily. 

Reginleif turned her head and looked at him. “You are no threat to me. Walk away,” she warned.

John fired - once, twice, three times. Three bullets went straight for Reginleif’s head. She was thrown off balance but stood tall. John gaped as the bullets bounced off and jingled to the wooden floor.

She snarled and tossed Skalmöld carelessly to one side. The smaller valkyrie slammed into the wood, clutching her throat. Reginleif didn’t so much as look at her. She advanced on John. “You insignificance,” she hissed. She put a hand to her face, feeling for injury, but the bullets hadn’t even broken the skin. “Why you were ever on the list is beyond me.”

John looked at the gun in his hand. He raised it to point at her face. Then his aim changed and he fired two shots directly at her left knee. It buckled and she halted to get her balance. She righted herself and her eyes narrowed on him.

Something large and dark blue and filled with consulting detective hurled into her and pushed her to the floor. She turned and elbowed the mass of human. Sherlock cried out in pain and anger and was gone. She got to one knee to find him on the floor, having dropped his spade head as he tried to get up again. John leapt over him and raced for Skalmöld to help her up. 

Reginleif put a hand to her knee to stand. Until the spade whammed directly into her face and knocked off her helmet.

She was thrown backwards. The spade head smacked into her left cheek, then her other one, before it hammered into her left again to send her into the floor with an ugly crash.

Morrison stepped back one to heave in breath, letting the spade head down in her hands. Sherlock was already skittering to his feet. He grabbed Morrison’s arm. She kept a good hold on the spade head as she let herself be pulled backward.

“Impressive, Major,” Sherlock said. “But it’s not doing any good.”

As the four of them withdrew to a safe distance, Reginleif reached out across the floor and picked up her helmet. She set it slowly on her head before getting to her feet with more than a hint of blistering fury. “You - will - all - die!” she hissed.

John raised his gun. Skalmöld pulled two short daggers from her armour, brandishing them in both hands. Morrison gripped the spade head. Sherlock looked at the three of them, and then his own empty hands. He ripped the scarf from round his neck and made sure he had it tight over both fists.

John changed grip on the gun nervously. “Where are Sam and Dean?”

“Any time!” Sherlock bellowed over his shoulder.

“Keep your hair on!” Dean called back, appearing in the doorway with Reginleif’s sword. “Swap. Sam needs your help.”

“Mine?” Sherlock asked, already backing up.

Dean took his place, Reginleif’s sword in his right hand. “Tell me you can read ancient languages!”

“Depends,” Sherlock said. “Which one?”

“Just go,” Dean urged.

Sherlock turned and bolted. Reginleif took a step toward them but Dean raised the sword.

She stopped short. “An ashishibelde,” she said, a dark look on her face. “You wish to harm _me?_ ”

“That’s the idea,” Dean said. “And you know we can do it, too. This thing’ll cut your head clean off, don’t think it won’t.”

“That?” she scoffed.

The others turned and looked at the sword. A lumpy, sloppy mix of nastiness was sliding over the blade with greasy, sickly determination. Dean shrugged self-consciously. “It’ll do the job.”

“You should be very sure,” Reginleif shot back, her smile pulled into one of evil delight.

“Oh, I am,” said Dean. “Pretty much anything Sam touches with his dangly bits dies.”

She rushed him. He elbowed Morrison to one side as he swung the sword round in a vicious circle. It scraped the front of Reginleif’s armour - and burnt straight through. The lower half dropped to the floor, leaving her with half a tabard and only chainmail.

She looked down at it, surprised.

Dean raised his eyebrows. “Well now. Would you look at that.”

Reginleif snarled and threw herself at him. He swung and chopped at her. She grabbed the blade and yanked. They went down in a heap of flying limbs and shouts of fury.

Sam and Sherlock ran into the room, Sherlock with a piece of notepaper in his hand. “Now?” he asked.

Sam’s attention was torn. “Dean!” he called in fear.

Skalmöld leapt on the pile of biting, hissing, shouting fight. She wrenched and stabbed with her daggers. John and Morrison looked at each other. They dived into the fray.

“Now?” Sherlock demanded.

Sam tore his gaze away to glance at him. “Now!”

Sherlock cleared his throat. His voice was quiet, firm - but it began to repeat words over and over, the intensity rising.

“It’s not working,” Sam cried desperately. “Do it louder!”

Sherlock began to repeat the words again - this time at the top of his voice. Sam went to the pile of fighting, squirming bodies. The scuffle was anger and fury and desperation in a ball of limbs and cursing.

John was suddenly ejected as if shot from a cannon. He landed twenty feet away, dazed and confused as to why he was face down on the floor. Morrison was next. She landed on the opposite side of the skirmish and got to her feet much faster than John. There was a pained roar and a rather rude epithet before Dean was catapulted out of the fight. He skidded across the wood on his back like a fairground ride, his right hand out to somehow help bring him to a stop. He rolled to his feet and looked around, aiming to get straight back in.

Morrison was there first. She leapt - but a well placed armoured foot stopped her midair and sent her into the wall. Dean moved for her even as she fell. A hand gripped his ankle and swung him into the opposite wall. Sam and Sherlock began to chant the words together as they looked on in horror.

Reginleif got to her feet. She booted Skalmöld in the ribs, sending her a mere foot across the floor. She coughed and gulped in breath. Her fingers dragged the fallen sword to her side to help her get up. 

Reginleif didn’t even look. She ripped off her dented helmet and torn, bloodied tabard. She stomped over to Morrison. “You are the worst irritation I have ever encountered!” she hissed down at the fallen Major.

Morrison tried to move. The valkyrie lifted a boot.

“Reginleif!” came a voice.

Everyone looked over at Skalmöld. She lifted the sword in both hands. “Get away from her, you _bitch!_ ”

Dean blinked in surprise, one half of his brain trying to go through the steps needed to fathom how a valkyrie could sound so much like Ellen Ripley. The other half slapped him over the back of the head and told him to concentrate on more important matters.

Reginleif was turning. She pointed at Skalmöld. “You will be first. And then all of you criminals will be dealt with.” She lifted her boot again and stomped it down into Morrison.

Or rather, where Morrison _had_ been. 

Reginleif was surprised and more than a little outraged to feel hands on the chainmail of her leg. They tugged. She was caught off balance. Morrison hung onto her, using her body weight to keep her anchored. John leapt at her and landed square in her back. It sent both him and her to the floor boards.

As John shook his head and clutched at his injured skull, Reginleif cried out in anger. John looked over and found Dean with his boot firmly planted in her midriff, just below the missing armour.

And then a strange, ethereal light made them all pause. Even Reginleif stopped struggling and craned her neck to see. 

Skalmöld was on her feet. She carried the sword in both hands - the sword that was now glowing with secret purpose. She stopped by Reginleif’s head. 

“Now, sister,” she said sadly. “Head of our order, leader of Odin’s valkyrie - now you answer me. Is this Odin’s will? Is this what he bids us do for him? Look around you and mark you well the room before you speak,” she added angrily. “The pain, the anguish, the torment you have caused these mortals, and all for orders that do not now exist. You kill Odin’s soldiers before they can serve him. You terrorise and harm other handmaidens. Look upon yourself and answer me, brave and noble valkyrie - what have you done?”

Reginleif’s eyes blazed with fury. She struggled against Morrison, against Dean. John slid across the floor and grabbed Reginleif’s free arm. He wrenched it down to the boards and weighed his knee on it - as well as both hands.

“I will kill you all!” Reginleif hurled. “Starting with you, Skalmöld! You have shamed Odin with your insanity!”

Skalmöld sought a deep breath. She sighed it out with regret. “I think you may be mistaken about which of us is insane.”

She lifted the sword tip. Reginleif wrenched. She got her arm free and smacked the back of her fist into John’s head. He flew backwards.

Skalmöld moved forward. She lifted the sword higher, looking down at the other woman. “May Odin forgive you - and divert you from Hel.” She rammed the tip straight down.

It sank straight through Reginleif’s throat. The tip splintered into the wooden floor beneath.

An eerie silence choked the room. 

No-one moved. 

Presently, Skalmöld pulled the sword free. Reginleif’s hands opened slowly. Her chest gave a rattle and then lay still. Her arms slowly, gracefully, settled to the floor.

Sherlock and Sam came forward to peer at the woman. Dean lifted his boot and wobbled backward, bumping into Morrison who was climbing to her feet. The Major put a hand to Dean’s shoulder and pulled him back a step. 

They looked down at Reginleif, feeling the strange, commanding air to her demeanour fade. Her skin turned matte and dull, her lips withered until they were dry as bone. Two tiny points of light swelled and buzzed in her eyes, before they sparked and faded to nothing.

Skalmöld dropped the sword. It clattered to the floor, making everyone jump at least six inches in their skins. It was Sherlock who turned and picked it up gingerly, scrutinising the wear and tear the evening had produced. Sam crouched and studied Reginleif’s face, his hand loosely holding the cast around his fractured wrist. He sniffed in thought as he nodded slowly.

It was silent for a whole minute.

John cleared his throat. “Is that it?” he dared. “Is it over?”

Everyone stared; only Sherlock did not expect Reginleif to get back up.

“I think… it’s done,” Sam said sadly.

“But not over,” Skalmöld whispered.

John glanced at her. “So… what do we do with her now?”

Morrison clapped her hand down on Dean’s shoulder. “This is your department,” she said, her voice hushed. “What happens to the corpse?”

“I will dispose of the remains,” Skalmöld said. She was still staring, but now her eyes carried far too much water. 

John stepped around the body, putting his hand on her arm. “Skalmöld… you didn’t have any choice.”

She turned to look at him. “You are such a good man,” she said firmly. Her arms went round him and squeezed. John fought to breathe but something in him refused to not hug her back. He managed to get his arms round her and return perhaps a tenth of her strength before she patted his back and held him at arm’s length. “Should you ever need my assistance, you must call for me.”

“Uhm… ok,” he said faintly.

She let him go to look around at the circle of mortals watching her. “But now… I must ask for your help. I must send Reginleif on her way and to do that I need a few things.”

Sam got up, turning to look at her. “Tell us what you need.”

 


	12. End of Days

 

The watch on Dean’s wrist showed nearly three in the morning, but no-one was checking it. Instead, four men and two women stood at a wooden funeral pyre by a large, well-kept military house. The wood was more or less even, the cage underneath pretty much fixed to let the body atop drop into it when necessary. An earthen wall, barely a foot high and circling the pyre from a few feet away, was damp and smelt of old trees and petrichor.

Skalmöld lifted the sword, walking toward the pyre and placing it on top. The body had been wrapped in sheets carefully soaked in kerosene, and now lay larger than life in front of them all.

Sherlock had his arms folded, his head tilted to one side, as if cataloguing everything for further study. John was a few feet in front of him, until Skalmöld stepped back from the pyre and folded her arm through his. He looked down at their entwined arms in surprise, but then straightened up and kept his chin high to the pyre.

Sam, his arm now in a light sling to keep the cast on his wrist elevated somewhat, turned his attention down to the Zippo lighter in his free hand. “Does anybody - um - want to say anything?” he offered.

Morrison cleared her throat. She had her hands behind her back, her heavy military coat keeping the cold off in such wee hours. “I do.” She paused. “She was a hell of a fighter, even if she was on the wrong side. Whatever happened to make her… like that - it was a shame. She worked hard, and did her job, followed orders, for a bloody long time. It’s a waste that it’s come to this.” She didn’t look to Dean, to her left, but something about the way he took a half step closer to her, turning slightly toward her, made her feel strangely unalone.

He stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets against the cold. “Harsh way to go out.”

“So many of your years… She has been the symbol of right and duty since Odin’s father first took the throne. And now…” Skalmöld sighed. She looked at the man next to her. “I am sorry, John Watson.”

He looked at her. “Whatever for?”

“I did not understand before. I have never experienced someone - someone with whom I’m familiar - dying. I did not know what it felt like for them to… end. I did not know until now how it must have been for you to learn of your soldiers’ mortal deaths. I did not work by her side, but she was… one of us. She was… a superior.”

His mouth worked for a moment. Then he wet very dry lips and tugged his chin straight. “I understand.” He paused, feeling everyone’s eyes and ears on him. “What will you do now?”

“I will no longer collect,” she whispered. “I do not think I can.”

“Then what?” Sam asked gently. “What does a valkyrie do when they don’t want to be a valkyrie?”

Skalmöld put her free hand out in silence. Sam looked at it, then heard Dean’s tut. He looked at his brother to see Dean pointing to the lighter in his hand. Sam came forward and handed it over to Skalmöld.

She pushed her thumb on the wheel, trying to make it catch. John put his hand over hers, helping her. A bright flame appeared and she smiled him a thank you. She let go of his arm and went forward, bending to touch the flame to the side of the wooden pyre. She stepped back.

John shut the lid of the Zippo lighter for her, extinguishing the flame. Skalmöld put her arm through his again, holding tight to him as the flames spread around the pyre.

Morrison came closer. She stood next to John. The fire built and whipped around the wrapped body, scattering embers up around and into the night. The brittle cold air carried the tiny red flecks of heat away, across the lawn, past Sherlock’s hole in the grass by the tree, and across to the building behind them. The flames snapped and hissed as they slowly began to eat at the remains.

John stood straighter. He lifted his right hand. He and Morrison, stiff-backed and heavy-hearted, saluted the pyre.

A cold minute passed. They let their hands down and John again captured Skalmöld’s arm through his. Sam drifted back to be out of the way, finding himself next to Sherlock. The detective looked up at the taller Winchester, his eyes thoughtful, before his attention went back to the fire.

Morrison retreated to Dean’s shoulder. She said nothing. He did nothing. But she felt the way his eyes desperately wanted to look anywhere but the flames. Her hand twitched, unsure of what it should - or could - do. He stirred and his head turned. She met his eyes; she saw a flicker of something, perhaps sorrow, perhaps helplessness, perhaps frustration. Then he lifted his chin and looked back at the fire.

Presently it had eaten all but the ends of the logs around the base. There was a sliding crash and what was left of the body fell through the ashen bones of trees to land on the prepared earth underneath. Sherlock looked at his watch and then turned and walked away. Sam patted at Skalmöld’s shoulder and followed. Morrison put an elbow up and nudged Dean in the ribs. He looked at her and she gestured back to the house. He turned and nodded to John, then Skalmöld. He began to walk away.

“John Watson,” Skalmöld said firmly. “I would very much like to know what mortals do in times like these.”

John’s mouth opened but he had no answer. 

Dean paused and looked back over his shoulder. “Drink.”

She did not turn from the fire. “Do you have mead?”

“Hell no,” Dean scoffed. “Whisky does it for me.”

“Then I would very much like to try this ‘wiss-kee’,” she said.

Dean turned right round, to Morrison’s amusement. “Sure?” he asked.

“Veygass munnie says it would be a suitable distraction,” she replied.

“Well ok then,” Dean said with a smile. “Whenever you’re ready, it’ll be in the officers’ mess.”

“I thank you,” she said quietly. 

Dean looked at Morrison. She regarded him for a long moment before she gestured back to the house with her head. He sniffed, as if stalling for time, but his eyebrow twitched upward just slightly. She smiled and put a hand out, pushing him round and back to the house.

Skalmöld took a deep breath of the night air. She looked up at the stars, prompting John to do the same. “So beautiful, this world of yours,” she whispered.

“I like it.”

“I can see why you did not want to go straight to Valhalla.”

“Isn’t that - well, like blasphemy?” he asked. “Valhalla is supposed to be the ultimate place to be.”

“It is,” she said. “But… it is not what I want. At least not yet. I think."

“Perhaps you need to figure out what it is you _do_ want,” John said.

She looked at him. “I do.” Her gaze went back to the fire. “I have.”

“And?”

“I want to try this ‘wiss-kee’. Will you help me?”

“Absolutely.”

 

ooOoo

 

Sam blinked open ready eyes, shoving a palm into his right one to give it a good scrub. He sniffed and pushed himself up in bed, finding the dorm empty save himself. He snorted with something like amusement before he flung back the sheets and went for a proper hot shower.

It was a while later, after he had managed to get dressed with only one good hand and a cast on the other, that he decided to find out where everyone else had got to. Hollyhedge House was silent, save the birds chittering away beyond the hole in the training room wall. Sam ducked his head in and found the gaping wound in the wood mostly covered with a couple of regimental flags. He smiled and and turned on his heel. Hearing the sound of metal on glass he frowned, and went down the corridor until he came to Major Morrison’s office. He poked his head round the door.

“Sherlock,” he blinked, surprised. “What are you doing, man?”

Sherlock was perched on Morrison’s chair, an array of weird and wonderful accoutrements arranged on the desk. His elbows were firmly planted in the surface, his chin in his hands as he stared at a crude bunsen burner construction and the load on its makeshift tripod.

Sam ventured into the room and stopped opposite the contraption. He watched the dark grey liquid bubble in the obviously appropriated metal tea mug. “Are you _testing_ stuff?” he marvelled. 

“Studying,” Sherlock mused. “I’ve been unable to find anything of any worth in either the mixture or the ashes.”

“Ashes?” Sam asked. “Wait - that’s - um - Reginleif? In there?”

“Yes. I’ve already tried the concoction we spread on the sword.”

“Sherlock!” Sam spluttered. “Don’t you think that’s a little - kinda - wrong?”

Sherlock’s eyes went from the tin cup up to Sam’s - which was a long way. “Oh _God_ ,” he heaved. “Not you as well. I thought with John out of the way I’d finally get some actual scientific data out of all this.”

Sam gawped at him - just gawped. Finally he threw his unplastered hand in the air. “I’m going to find the kitchen,” he said as he backed up to the door. “Do you want coffee?”

“No.”

Sam’s eyes rolled in a way that suggested they had first limbered up for the task. Then he turned and walked out of the room, determined to find the nearest coffee pot. He went down the corridor and around a few corners before he found what he wanted; he walked in and found an industrial coffee machine with the capacity of possibly the Atlantic ocean. He smiled and went about getting all the pieces together.

It was as he was collecting a large coffee mug from an overhead cupboard that he realised there was a low buzzing sound coming from somewhere to his left. He put the mug down and followed the noise toward a door at the far end. The buzzing turned to voices as he put his hand to the door handle and turned it.

“Dean - do you want—. Oh. Um. Hi,” he said, surprised for the second time that morning.

John and Skalmöld looked up from the long trestle table between them. “Hello,” John said. “We weren’t bothering you, were we?”

“Uh - no, of course not,” Sam said, coming into the room and letting his hands go into his pockets. “Anyone want coffee?”

Skalmöld lifted a tin mug and wiggled it slightly. “We have been drinking this ‘wiss-kee’,” she said. “And John Watson is quite the conversationalist. Would you like to join us?”

“You been in here all night?” Sam blinked.

“Has it been all night?” John asked, looking at his watch.

Sam smiled. “I’ll… um… get some coffee. You guys… have fun.” He backed up and walked out of the room quickly, shutting the door. He went straight back to the coffee machine and played with the various parts of the pipes until he had a steaming mug of black gold in front of him. He grinned and picked it up, smelling at the rim and finding it better than he had expected from a British army barracks. 

Then he went out of the kitchen and down the hall, deciding it was time to pull the shower towel on his brother.

 

ooOoo

 

Morrison’s private quarters were a study in combat fallout. Pillows and clothes littered the floor, a half-empty whisky bottle and a black wristwatch occupied the small side table, and her dog tags hung on the bed post. She dug herself out of the giant, comfortable nest of sheets and duvets and arms to squirm around more into a hard, warm surface. She spread herself over it, stretching and giving a loud sigh of contentment. Her right eye opened and she rubbed it to find herself on top of Dean’s chest. She smiled and let her eye close again. Her hand slid up to stroke through the hair over his ear.

“Why are you awake?” she asked lethargically.

Dean’s eyes were fixed on the far corner of the ceiling, his left hand behind his head on the pillow. He slipped his right hand round her back and just enjoyed the warmth. “Had my four hours,” he muttered.

She chuckled and then her eyes opened. She stood her chin on his chest to look up at him. “Shifts.”

“What?”

“You sleep in shifts. You wake up about every three or four hours.”

“Most of the time. Why?”

“I did it for… oh, a year or two, when I was in Afghanistan. And before that, Sierra Leone. And before _that_ in Northern Ireland. Come to think of it, I think I did it before that, even.” She laid her head down again, sliding her hand down his neck to his chest.

“You’ve seen a lot of crap, then.”

“Yes. But days like this make up for some of it.” She closed her eyes, concentrating on the warmth beneath her, the real live person with the heartbeat she could feel through living skin. “Any idea what time it is?”

“Nope.”

“You sound happy about that.”

“I’m far away. From everything back home.”

“Something happened, right?” she asked quietly, her cheer retreating. “You lost someone. I saw you at the fire. You’ve done that before.”

He hauled in a deep breath. “A few times.”

“Family?” she dared. “Or friends?”

“Family.” He cleared his throat. “Recently… the best family. Better than my real family, maybe.”

“Ouch,” she hissed, stroking at his skin in sympathy. “I hope you dealt with anyone who’d had a hand in it.”

“Not yet,” he said. “But I will.” It was quiet for a long moment, with just the birds outside and the cricks and creaks of an old house around them. “But hey,” he said, “no-one knows where I am right now. It’s a relief.”

“Off the radar?”

“Something like that.” He paused. “And this is the most comfortable I’ve been in… I can’t remember.”

“You _are_ very easy to be on top of,” she winked.

He chuckled. “No, it’s… There’s no phone calls, no urgent messages, no-one calling you, no-one and nothing chasing you down. For anything.” He sighed, and to her, it sounded somewhat uneasy.

“You need a holiday.” She pushed on him to get her left elbow under her, shaking at his chest with her other hand. “You need more time off. Come back here when you do.”

He looked at her. “Seriously? You want me to fly like nine hours on a _plane_ to come back here? Why would I do that?” he smiled.

She grinned. “I’d make it worth your while.”

“You already have.”

She chuckled, then looked around the room. “What now?”

“How are you gonna explain the sword that’s now lying in a heap of ash and burnt wood in the back yard?”

“ _That’s_ what you’re thinking about?”

He shrugged. “Practical first.”

“Well… I’ll lift the quarantine later this afternoon. The COs will return tomorrow morning. I have all day and all night to get it sorted.” She paused. “But I suppose you can’t stay that long.” 

Dean’s smile died. “Wish I could. But… you get any more problems that other people would think are nuts, and you call me.”

“You mean you don’t just take care of valkyries?” she teased.

“Ghosts, revenants, rakshasas, demons and even the occasional angel. Werewolves and vampires, too. Even faeries.”

She grinned, sliding a hand up to his jaw. “You Americans do have a wonderful sense of humour.” She shifted up to be closer. “Seriously, tell me how you know about all this—“

But he kissed her. And that was that. 

 

ooOoo

 

Sam walked down the corridor until he came to the door marked ’S.O.’ He cleared his throat and stopped to put his hand up to knock. Something caught his ear and he paused to hear his brother’s voice.

“Wait - is it my turn to invade or surrender?”

“I’ve lost count. Surprise me,” said a female voice. Then it shrieked in delight and laughed out loud. 

Sam’s hand dropped. He turned and began to walk away, but John appeared round the corner. “Oh. Hey,” Sam said. He stepped further away from the door hastily, his face wearing the kind of smile that had too many teeth to be anything but apologetic.

John came up to him. “I was looking for Morrison. Thought I might help shift some of the mess we made out in the back garden,” he smiled.

“Yeah - good idea,” Sam said. “I’ll help. Let’s go.”

The two of them walked round to the large rec room and ducked under the flags to get outside. 

“Have you seen Sherlock this morning?” John asked.

“Uh, yeah,” Sam said. “He was in Morrison’s office. He seemed pretty busy.”

“Don’t tell me - experiments,” John sighed, as they came to a stop. In front of them was a large, ashen circle, full of charcoal’d sticks and lumps of half-grey, half-black stumps of wood. In the middle were scraps of burnt cloth and the suggestion of metal.

“Something like that,” Sam said. He put his one good hand in his pocket, looking at the mess. “So how do we do this?”

John sighed. “We’ll have to separate that sword from the ashes - and all that armour she had. I suppose we could leave the sword for Morrison.”

“Yeah.” Sam twisted, looking off toward the far edge of the garden, and the trees standing to attention. “How about… we get as much of Reginleif’s remains as possible under that tree. I mean, Sherlock left a hole there for us.”

“Good idea.” John crossed to the tree, looking down and finding where the root had been exposed so some of it could be hacked off for a spell the night before. He snorted, shaking his head. “Weird. This whole weekend has just been _weird_.”

“It was one of the good ones,” Sam said, looking at the blue sky. While it was cold, and he shrugged more into his jacket, he had to admit it was a fresh, clean breeze that ruffled his hair. A few fluffy white clouds were dawdling far toward the horizon, but the sky was so blue and so bold that it made him stare.

John was walking back toward him. “I’ll get a spade.”

“Get two,” Sam said, following him back toward the house.

“Can you dig with one hand?”

“I can shovel,” Sam said. “I’ll cope.”

“Where’s Dean, by the way? I’d have thought he’d be out here wanting to hide evidence.”

“Oh, he’s… waking up Morrison,” Sam said slowly. John paused. He looked at Sam. Then he shook his head and walked on. Sam smiled and followed.

 

ooOoo

 

Sherlock whisked a tea towel over Morrison’s desk, as if to remove invisible specks of dust. The entire room was back to normal, as if his experiments had never happened. He stood back and nodded at his handiwork just as the door swung open.

“Ah. Good morning, Mr Holmes,” Skalmöld said with a smile. “John Watson tells me you two are leaving.”

“Yes we are,” he said. He straightened up and turned to her. “What will you do? Where will you go?”

“I will take my leave of you,” she said. “John Watson and I have discussed my options at length. I shall return to my sisters and see if there are others who need to be… checked.”

“I see,” Sherlock nodded. “Do you need help with that?”

“Are you offering?” she smiled.

“I could get more scientific evidence of DNA, human-to-valkyrie parallels, and record some data.”

“I see,” she grinned. “Alas, although I would value your help, I cannot transport more than one person with me.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “You’re taking John?”

“He has expressed a desire to see the great doors to Valhalla. Whilst he is not allowed entry - now - the doors are there for anyone to see. I believe it will ease his mind to know that his three friends entered them safely.”

“Sounds like John wants to let you off the hook, but he needs to see the proof first,” said a voice from behind her. The others turned and saw Dean in the doorway. “I would,” he shrugged. “So everyone’s heading out?”

“I shall leave now, and John Watson shall come with me,” Skalmöld nodded. “Not for long. I will return him to his house shortly.”

“Great.” Dean looked at Sherlock. “You?”

“I need to get back to Baker Street,” he said mildly, but something about the way his eyes flicked up and down Dean made the Winchester suspect he knew every single detail of Dean’s morning without even asking.

“Right,” Dean breathed.

“And where _is_ Major Morrison?” Sherlock asked, ostensibly amiably.

Dean was not fooled. “She’s in the back with John and Sam. They’re making the place look presentable for when soldiers and their COs turn up here tomorrow.”

Sherlock turned and went to the window, looking out. “Then perhaps we should all help.”

 

ooOoo 

 

Hollyhedge House stood tall, watching the men and women by the taxi in the gravel. Sherlock put his hands behind his back, watching as John and Morrison said goodbye.

“Thank you, Mr Watson, for all your help,” the Major was saying. “It was good to have you home again.”

“Nice to know I can always sneak back in,” he smiled.

“Safe travels, sir.”

“Major.” He nodded and turned to Skalmöld. 

She tilted her head at Morrison. “Valhalla would suit you very well,” she said. “One day, if you wish it, you must contact me. I can still arrange for you to go on the list.”

“I am honoured,” Morrison managed. “But not eager. —But I wouldn’t say never.”

“I understand,” Skalmöld said. “Thank you, Major. You are a fierce ally.” The two women shared a handshake, and then Skalmöld stepped back. “John Watson? Are you ready?”

John looked at Sam and Dean. “Are you two sure I’ll make it back?” he asked.

Dean grinned, folding his arms. “You trust Scaramouche, right?”

“I do.”

“Then you’ll make it back.” Dean looked at Skalmöld. “But if it he doesn’t… we know where you live.”

Sam nudged him harshly, before smiling at Skalmöld. “He’s joking. But yeah, we’ll come and get John if you run into trouble.”

“Thanks,” John said, obviously relieved. He turned and faced Sherlock. “So… you’ll have to get your own tea for a bit. I’ll be back, though. Don’t set fire to anything and don’t be mean to Mrs Hudson.”

Sherlock let out a very small smile play with his lips. “On the contrary, John - I think Mrs Hudson would enjoy listening to this particular tall tale, _before_ it hits your blog.”

John nodded at Sherlock, and then turned back to the Winchesters and Morrison. “Well then. Thanks, everyone, for helping to get this cleared up. We really should stop meeting like this.” He raised a palm. “Uhm… bye.”

Everyone nodded. Skalmöld put a hand on John’s shoulder. He looked at her, unafraid and just a little bit keen. She grinned and patted.

And the two of them were gone.

Sherlock looked up to the sky, then back at Morrison. “Major,” he nodded. “You’ve been most helpful. The easiest person I’ve dealt with.”

“And you’re pretty handy with a spade,” she grinned. “Go on, go. I have paperwork to complete before the world returns to normal tomorrow.”

Sherlock inclined his head and then opened the back door to the taxi. He slid onto the back seat, talking to the driver.

Sam turned to Morrison. “Thanks, Major. We couldn’t have done any of this without you.”

“Oh, Sam. Thank _you_ for solving this whole thing. You two are welcome back here any time you like. Just make it not because of murderers, ok?”

Sam grinned. “See you round, Major.” He went to the front door passenger door and folded himself in. He turned immediately to speak to Sherlock in the back seat.

Morrison closed on Dean. She put a hand to the open edge of his jacket. She didn’t smile as she appraised the serious look on his face, the freckles that were a direct contrast to his years of hard work, the feeling that at any moment his mouth could burst into a cheeky grin or an angry rebuttal. “And you,” she said quietly. “Look after yourself. And I mean it - you can come back here. To work, or just to play. Any time. But please, be in one piece.”

“I always try,” he admitted.

It was quiet for a long moment.

“What are you thinking?” she dared.

He opened his mouth, and then his eyes ranged all around her face, down her hair that hung free to the shoulders of her fatigues. “I’m trying to put into words how awesome you are. I keep coming up with ‘hot’, but that’s like saying ‘Impala - made of metal’.”

“Thank you - I think,” she grinned. She leant on him as he slid a hand into her hair.

“I’ll try to come back,” he said quietly. “I mean - I’ll _really_ try. But I say that to friends we got, and something always comes up. If I don’t come back, it’s not because I don’t want to.”

She smiled, leaning on him just a little more. “I understand.”

“You _actually_ do.” His mouth bent into a welcome smile. “That, right there? That’s why I’ll always try.”

“Stop talking now,” she grinned. She pulled on his jacket and kissed him.

The birds chirped in the trees around them, the beautiful blue sky let warm, intense sun beat down, and the taxi engine started up to add to the soundtrack. Eventually, Morrison eased Dean back and patted him in the chest. “Phew. Go now, before I change my mind.”

He grinned, tossed her a wink that she would remember for all of her days, and opened the rear passenger door behind him. He climbed in and thunked it shut securely.

“Are you finally ready?” Sherlock asked irritably.

“As I’ll ever be,” Dean breathed.

The taxi pulled out down the gravel, breaking out onto the main road. As it waited to turn left and join the afternoon traffic, Dean twisted in the seat and looked back.

Morrison had moved to the end of the house. She raised a hand to point at him with a grin.

Then the taxi pulled away and the house, and Morrison, was gone.

Dean settled back into the seat. Sherlock folded his arms in impatience.

Sam looked in the side mirror, finding his brother’s face. At first Dean looked lost, or perhaps just beaten down. But then a tiny, shiny whimsical smile ninja’d across his face and his eyes swivelled to look out of the window. Sam had no doubt at all that he had no conscious awareness of the trees and roads passing them by.

Sam looked back out of the front windscreen. 

The taxi driver cleared his throat. “‘Spect you don’t remember me,” he said cheerfully, “but I drove you out here a while back. ‘Ere, Mr Holmes - did you find that serial killer then? For the army?”

Sherlock looked up at the back of his head. “Yes.”

“Amazing. Y’know, I told my wife I drove for you - she was dead impressed.”

“Fascinating,” Sherlock said flatly.

“Funny thing though - she said on the net, like, they were speculating it wasn’t even a person. A ghost, some said. Still, you can’t believe all that guff on the internet, can you?”

“Not at all.”

The driver grinned. “Want to hear something funny? My wife said she bumped into a friend of hers at the supermarket just yesterday - and _she_ said that her husband was acting a bit funny. Coming home at weird times, doing odd stuff in the shed. I said I’d mention it to you if I ever saw you again.”

“Really. _Thank_ you,” Sherlock said with enough sarcasm to sink the Titanic.

“Thing is,” the driver went on, “she kept finding piles of sulphur everywhere. I mean - sulphur? Why not ashes like he’d burnt love notes from whichever woman he was havin’ an affair with, right?”

“Piles of sulphur?” Sam asked. He twisted in the seat to find Dean already looking at him.

Sherlock looked at Dean. “Sulphur as in—“

“Could be,” he nodded.

Sherlock looked at the driver again. “How many piles?”

“Oh I dunno, Mr Holmes. You’d have to speak to her. Well, if you wanted to ‘o course,” the driver said.

Sherlock turned deliberately to look at Dean. “When is your flight again?”

“Nine this evening,” Dean said. “But…”

Sam cleared his throat. “We could maybe change it. Put it back a few hours.”

“Or days,” Dean nodded.

Sherlock began to smile. It was not a nice smile, in that it spoke of the ferocious need of a shark to rip open the underneath of a fishing net to get at the contents. He looked at the driver’s headrest. “Where is this friend of your wife’s? Does she live far from Marylebone?”

“Not far, guv,” he said happily. “Want me to give her a bell, see if she’s about this afternoon? It’ll be a few hours back to London in this traffic anyway.”

Dean looked at Sam. He nodded at his elder brother. Dean turned to Sherlock but already saw the fire in his eyes that had been lit by this strange gossip. “Do it,” Dean said. “Tell her we’ll be there in a few hours.”

“Right-o, sir,” the driver grinned.

The taxi drove on.

 

 

**FIN**

 

( _And that’s a wrap, people. I know I said I’d have this done in November 2013, and it’s now July 2014, but I moved from Hong Kong back to England and life kept getting in the way. Thanks for your patience and endurance - and thanks for being reading readers who read! It’s all for you!_ )

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for giving this a chance! I didn't think I'd do another Sherlock and Supernatural crossover, but here we are. Thanks for all the messages and reviews on the last one (A Study in Shapeshifting) - you made me realise I wanted to do another. And no, this is not a sequel. You never have to read A Study in Shapeshifting.


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